


Weekend at the Lake

by 221bBakerStreet221b



Series: Little Brothers Mine [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bed-Wetting, Comfort/Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Non-Sexual Age Play, Omorashi, Pacifiers, Spanking, Swearing, Thumb-sucking, Wetting, pull-ups, self-harm (chapter 10)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2018-10-23 01:20:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 80,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10709148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221bBakerStreet221b/pseuds/221bBakerStreet221b
Summary: Mycroft and Greg decide to pack up their boys and take them away from the stress of London for a weekend at the lake house.  But when Sherlock begins to get jealous of the closeness Mycroft is developing with his little brother John, he can't help but cause trouble.  Add in some struggles as Greg attempts to find his place within the family and John attempts to fully and accurately express himself in littlespace, and this may just be the toughest weekend this impromptu family has spent yet.





	1. Thursday Morning Wake-ups and Road Trip Pull-ups

**Author's Note:**

> Hi my dears! Sorry it's taken so long for me to post anything for this new work--I have some of the later stories already written but I felt the series needed a bit more fleshing out before I get to those ones. I'm not completely happy with this chapter, but I figured it was better than nothing!
> 
> Thanks again for all of your lovely kudos and comments--I'm trying to respond to all of them when possible! I'm so glad you're liking these stories and please feel free to keep sending suggestions.
> 
> As always, warnings for ageplay and wetting (my favorite, as I'm sure you've all already guessed). I also added a tag for swearing, because it just didn't seem as if a hung-over adult Sherlock could resist swearing at big brother Mycroft.
> 
> And a special shout-out to Brimoe18, who gave me the idea of a road trip with the boys. It's been fun to write! 
> 
> Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI these chapters have been edited (twice!) for clarity and continuity now that I decided to post "Little John and Uncle Greg."

Mycroft barged into 221b Baker Street on a bright and sunny Thursday morning, toting his overnight bags and followed by a half-asleep Greg who was clutching a travel mug of coffee and clearly attempting to mask his fatigue after being woken so early. He dropped a grocery bag in the kitchen before heading down the hallway.

“Wake up, brother mine,” Mycroft called as he slung open Sherlock’s bedroom door and turned on the light. “We leave in thirty minutes.”

Sherlock groaned, then yanked the blankets up over his head.

“Fuck off, Mycroft,” he mumbled, voice deep and husky from sleep. Sherlock was big, then, and judging from his behavior and the glass of water by the bedside next to the aspirin bottle, hung over.

“Out of bed,” Mycroft chirped, taking a bit of pleasure in tormenting his little brother. Sherlock had been a particularly troublesome kid while in little space the past few weeks. 

Mycroft was excited for their trip to the lake house. It would be the first time all four of them--Sherlock, John, Lestrade, and himself--had gone away together, and he was eager to get on the road. In some ways, he had been hoping the boys would be young--it had been over two weeks since they’d had any time longer than an evening to partake in age play and he was eager to spend time with them while little--but there was plenty of time for them to settle into headspace, and it might actually be easier to get two men ready and out of the apartment than if they were in the mindset of children. Then again, knowing Sherlock, that remained to be seen.

Mycroft entered Sherlock’s bedroom and yanked the comforter from Sherlock’s body. He was surprised to find John face-down in the bed next to Sherlock, one arm thrown over Sherlock’s bare back. Mycroft hadn't been expecting to find them in bed together and so had not noticed the man beneath the blankets. He’d come to learn that, generally, Sherlock tired of sharing his space with his boyfriend and, when they did go to bed together, Sherlock often woke up and sent John to his own room sometime in the middle of the night, always complaining that the man radiated too much heat while he slept. The two men must have gotten in too late or have been sleeping too soundly to rearrange their positions last night.

Sherlock swore when the warmth of the blanket was removed, then scrambled to a sitting position before wincing and holding his head in his hands. John moaned, pressing his face into his pillow. Yes, Mycroft hummed, the men were certainly hung over. They must have gone out to the pub the night before. A rare occurrence, but nothing out of the ordinary. It was one of John’s tricks to keep Sherlock entertained and away from drugs when he was feeling fidgety and not in the mood for age play.

“Go away, Mycroft,” Sherlock spat, “We’re not young enough to deal with your tedious nit-picking.” Mycroft ignored his brother’s snark and began busying himself around the room, tossing a bath towel to Sherlock and telling him to take a shower while he found his brother’s canvas overnight bag and placed it on the foot of the bed.

“Greg and I have plenty of clothes for little Sherlock and for Bunny, but if you're going to insist on staying big, pack what you’ll need,” Mycroft said. “We’re leaving in half an hour and, judging from your states, you both need to eat something before a long car ride.”

Sherlock glared at Mycroft and stormed out of his bedroom with the towel clutched in his hand. Mycroft heard the man stomp down the hallway and then listened as the bathroom door was closed and the shower turned on. He shifted his attention to John, who seemed to have fallen back to sleep. The man looked so innocent and calm while sleeping that Mycroft was unsure of John’s current headspace.

“Bun?” Mycroft tried, “Ready to get up and head to the lake house?”

John groaned and rolled over onto his back, blinking up at Mycroft.

“My bag’s packed upstairs, Mycroft,” he said, running his forearm across his face. He was currently big as well, then, and although affected by the alcohol, not nearly as irritable as Sherlock. 

Mycroft shifted away from his caretaker role, knowing neither man appreciated being babied while not in headspace.

“Greg’s making breakfast,” Mycroft said. “Meet us in the kitchen when you're ready?”

John nodded as he pulled himself out of bed, and Mycroft gathered trousers and a shirt for Sherlock, who he knew had not brought an outfit into the shower with him, before he left John to his own devices. He dropped off the clothing in the bathroom, leaving them on the sink counter and grateful that John had implemented a no locked doors policy in the flat after Sherlock’s last drug relapse.

It was only a moment after the showed had been turned off that Mycroft heard Sherlock’s shouting.

“Mycroft, what the hell is this?” He yelled from the bathroom, swinging the bathroom door open and emerging with a towel wrapped around his waist.

Mycroft put down his newspaper and exchanged a look with Greg, who was finishing up the French toast and scrambled eggs in the kitchen, before turning to address his brother. John was at the kitchen table as well, and he dropped his head into his hands. It was not only becoming clear that John had most likely had his own Sherlock concerns to deal with the night before, but that he was currently nursing a horrible headache.

“Rental car, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, eyebrows raised and voice sing-song. “It's the best option.”

“I'm a grown adult, Mycroft, unless you're too much of an idiot to notice.”

Mycroft stood from the kitchen table. He had half a mind to pull Sherlock over his lap and spank him right there on his bare behind for the snark he was showing, and he opened his mouth to tell his brother as much. But it was Greg who spoke up first.

“Watch the tone, Sherlock,” He said, voice matter-of-fact, less babying than concerned. 

And as seemed to be becoming progressively the case with Sherlock, Greg’s steady, down-to-earth presence grounded the man far more than Mycroft ever could. Mycroft could visibly see a bit of the anger leave Sherlock, an anger surprisingly replaced by a slight tinge of pink along Sherlock’s cheeks as he held the pull-up in his hand in front of Greg.

“I don't need it,” he mumbled, in an in-between headspace he was vulnerable to when around Greg, the headspace he found himself in when fighting the vulnerability of being little. Mycroft was almost glad the boys were hungover; it might mean a quicker transition to their younger selves.

Mycroft let Greg take over rationalizing with Sherlock. It was clear the man was responding with far less stubbornness to Greg’s suggestions. 

“Probably not, kid,” Greg shrugged, returning to the food and setting a plateful of French toast on the kitchen table. “You’re a big boy. But you don't have to use it, and it's probably a good idea just in case. Then you won't have to worry about the long car ride.”

“I'm not a child, Greg,” Sherlock mumbled, shifting himself back into adulthood, but Mycroft could see his brother’s resolve was slipping.

“Okay,” Greg said. “I'll get you some undies instead. Just make sure to use the loo before we leave.”

Greg turned to leave the kitchen and Mycroft sighed and returned to his newspaper. Sherlock never did well on long car rides, always waiting until it was too late to speak up about needing to go, refusing rest stops out of stubbornness even when they could all tell he was desperate. Mycroft would have been disappointed that the man had given up so easily if the words had not had a clear effect on his little brother. Sherlock was fidgeting, eyes downcast and both hands now on the pull-up. Mycroft, Greg, and John all knew Sherlock took a bit of comfort in them, that he liked wearing them more than he would admit because it was better than wetting his pants and underwear.

“Only if John does,” Sherlock said quietly. 

There was a hush as Greg paused on his route to the bedroom and Mycroft peered over his newspaper. John stopped his forkful of scrambled eggs mid-way to his mouth. 

“What was that?” Greg asked.

Sherlock shrugged, but there was defiance in his eyes when he looked up. He was definitely fully adult again, and reveling in mischief.

“I’ll wear one if John does,” he said. “We’re both just as likely to slip down in mindset, we’ve both been consuming copious amounts of liquids in the past twelve hours. After all, it is a long car ride in a rental, John.”

John cleared his throat and sipped from his mug of coffee.

“I don’t do that,” was all he said, but his cheeks were pink, and he would not make eye contact.

A look passed between Sherlock and John that Mycroft could not read. But it was clear the men were both thinking of something said between the two of them in the past, that Sherlock was silently referencing an understanding between the two. Had John spoken with Sherlock as candidly about his affinity for wetting as he had with Mycroft? Did Sherlock know that John had actually liked wetting his pants at the zoo or that he'd wet himself while alone with Greg the night after their case in Scotland? That he had been processing his feelings about the accidents since they had happened and admitted to Mycroft that he wanted to wet more often?

“Fine,”John said. And when the others looked at him with surprise or confusion or a mixture of both, he cleared his throat and shrugged it off. “If it’ll keep me from sitting next to a puddle of urine halfway through the car ride,” he joked, “it’ll be worth it.”

There was a release of tension in the room as Greg chuckled and Sherlock huffed at the accusation that he would wet in the car. The detective stormed back into the bathroom with a restatement that he was a full-grown adult. He emerged a moment later, fully dressed in the clothing Mycroft had set out for him--trousers and a white t-shirt--and tossed a spare pull-up directly at John, who caught it before it had the chance to fall into his now empty breakfast plate.

“Sit down and eat something while John gets dressed,” Mycroft sighed. 

Mycroft could not help but feel concern for John’s state of mind. He knew the man had come to terms with his desire to wet himself, but John had been clear with Mycroft that he was not ready to admit or show this to Sherlock just yet. John had not wet himself since the morning after Greg had babysat, and Mycroft was concerned that Sherlock manipulating John into a diaper might be a bit too much too soon for the doctor. It was no secret that Mycroft had been feeling a fierce protectiveness over John since he’d been slipping down into his little Bunny headspace, a protectiveness spurred by the phone call he had received the night Greg had babysat John and built up by the conversation he had had with John the following morning. His feelings for little John were of a different color than his feelings of brotherly love and of confident responsibility while caring for Sherlock. John’s little space seemed to reveal a vulnerability within the doctor of the type Mycroft had not seen before, and he was endeared by the fact that John had begun calling him Daddy when they were alone. John was just as fragile as Sherlock, but John had never had a protector in the way Sherlock always had in Mycroft; he needed care and looking after, but, more than anything, he needed healing. 

“John?” Mycroft called as he knocked on the man’s bedroom door. He had followed a few minutes after John left the kitchen with the pull-up.

“I’m fine, Myc,” John assured him as he opened the door and let him in. The man had not yet put on his shirt, and Mycroft could see the waistband of the pull-up above his jeans as John zipped and buttoned his fly.

“You don't have to play his games,” Mycroft told him, and John laughed through his nose.

“None of us have to,” John smirked. “And yet we always do.”

Mycroft had to concede that point.

“Are you sure you're okay with this, Bunny?” Mycroft asked. He knew very well that John was in an adult headspace at the moment, but he needed the jaded cynic that tended to characterize John to be dampened for a moment.

John sighed as he tugged a t-shirt over his head, then, once fully dressed, crossed the room to close the bedroom door.

“You know that if I'm being completely honest with myself, I'm more than okay with this,” John said when he knew he and Mycroft were less likely to be disturbed, “I haven't worn one since the morning after Greg babysat, and I have a vague memory of admitting that pull-ups intrigued me to Sherlock last night when we were drunk. His recollection of it is clearly less hazy than mine.”

“You don't have to do this in front of Sherlock if you're not ready,” Mycroft said. 

It had been about a month since John had wet himself at the zoo and two weeks since he'd wet himself in front of Greg the night the Inspector was babysitting and then in front of Mycroft the next morning. And while they had talked about John's desire to wet just as they discussed other aspects of age play--Mycroft addressing John's feelings of inadequacy, setting John’s preferred bedtime routine, contemplating John’s somewhat younger headspace recently--John had not wanted to act upon his desires while both he and Sherlock were in headspace. He had also refused to call Mycroft "Daddy" when Sherlock was in earshot. Mycroft assumed John was worried about how Sherlock might react.

John ran a hand along the back of his neck, cheeks pinking.

“I think I'm ready to start showing this side of myself to Sherlock,” he said, eyes on his shoes.

“There's nothing to be embarrassed about, Bun,” Mycroft reminded him. “There's no shame in it.”

John shrugged non-committedly, and if they had more time, Mycroft would have pushed to find out exactly what John was feeling at the moment. As it was, Greg had knocked on the door to ask if they were ready to go, and Mycroft could hear Sherlock whining that he’d been woken up early only to have to wait around for the others to leave.

“We can chat more later,” Mycroft said. He paused and took in John’s state. “Are you feeling little?”

John shrugged, then nodded. “It's the pull-ups,” he said. “And my head hurts. Didn’t get much sleep.”

Mycroft nodded and pulled John in for a hug.

“We’ll get you some aspirin once we’re settled in the car, Bun, and then maybe you’ll be able to take a bit of a morning nap. Do you have what you need?”

John nodded and yawned, then let Mycroft dress him in a blue sweater he often wore when little because it was oversized and soft. 

“Where’s Ariel?” Mycroft asked, and John yanked back his sheets and blankets until he found his stuffed lion tangled in the bedclothes. He pulled the stuffed animal to his chest. It was John’s only little item Mycroft had not been able to pack, as the man had started to keep her with him, close by even when the man was big. But whether out of necessity or convenience, Mycroft was unsure. 

“Alright, hun,” Mycroft smiled, guiding John from the bedroom with a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go to the lake, okay?”

After sending both boys to use the loo while Greg finished packing the car and after dealing with Sherlock’s stubborn refusal to try to pee one more time by threatening time outs until he stormed into the bathroom--the man wouldn't be big for long, Mycroft could see--they were each buckled into the rental car and on their way out of the city for a much-needed break.


	2. Car Ride Tantrum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New update! Thanks for your kudos and comments--they really do keep me inspired to write. Let me know what you'd like to see during the weekend at the lake in the comments below!
> 
> Later note: edited slightly for continuity after "Little John and Uncle Greg" was posted :)

“Stop kicking, Sherlock,” Greg called over his shoulder from the driver’s seat. They had been driving for only an hour and a half, but already Sherlock was restless, kicking at the seat in front of him. He felt stifled by the seat belt strapping him down--he’d taken it off twice and Mycroft had threatened to pull the car over and spank him if he did so once more--and cramped by the lack of legroom in the hatchback Greg had rented for the weekend. 

John had fallen asleep almost the moment they had set off. After tugging on Mycroft’s sleeve to ask for his pacifier as discreetly as he could, he had curled up against the door with his stuffed lion as a pillow. Sherlock would have teased John for the pacifier had he been in a younger headspace. He thought about pretending to be little in the moment just for the excitement that would come from teasing and getting scolded by Mycroft, but he was still feeling annoyingly adult, and it felt cruel to tease the bunny while Sherlock himself was not young.

“Bored,” Sherlock drawled, sending one final and forceful kick against the back of Greg’s seat before dropping his feet down into the footwell of the car gracelessly.

Mycroft and Greg had long since stopped suggesting to Sherlock that he play with the toys they had packed or color in the coloring books they had brought specifically for the car ride. Their well-meant enthusiasm for what Sherlock could only see that morning as inane children’s toys and books had been met with swearing and eye rolls, and they did not want to risk waking the bunny. 

Sherlock drummed his fingers against the armrest of the car. He didn’t even have his mobile to distract him; Lestrade had gathered John and Sherlock’s mobile phones before starting the car’s ignition, deeming the trip a “distraction-free” weekend. Sherlock had argued, knowing it would be exceedingly irresponsible not only for Lestrade not to have his mobile with him in case there was an emergency at the police station but also for Mycroft not to be available for governmental issues that may arise, and thus correctly assuming that any technology-free weekend regulations actually applied only to John and Sherlock himself. Had it been Mycroft’s rule, Sherlock may have put up more of a fight. As it was, Lestrade had looked at him with his Uncle Greg eyes and Sherlock had slipped over his phone with little more than a whine in the back of his throat. Damn Lestrade and his no-nonsense tone that left little room for Sherlock’s banter or debate. 

They had finished a case three days before--triple homicide, hospital janitor--and Sherlock had since not been able to feel anything but aimlessness and a loss of purpose. John had been doing all he could to distract Sherlock. The trip to the pubs last night had been the last of his numerous attempts. Sherlock went along with John’s plans because he knew John was simply trying to help, because he wanted John to feel the usefulness and sense of purpose that was sorely lacking from Sherlock’s own mindset. But John’s distractions were only momentary bandages, and Sherlock could not help but feel the stab of frustration. Without his phone to help him scroll through for potential cases, Sherlock could not help but feel the desire for drugs and solitude in some grimy drug den eating away at him. 

“How much longer?” Sherlock asked, stretching his body to tense all of his muscles and then flopping back onto the seat with a groan when he was met with silence. 

He had exhausted the patience of the men in the front seat by asking that same question far too many times in the space of fifteen minutes. Sherlock huffed to signal his distress to the men in the front seat and then let his head fall back against the headrest. 

The car ride would be less insufferable if he could allow himself to slip down in age. Mycroft and Lestrade had brought toys, books, puzzles, even Sherlock’s pirate shirt and, in case he was feeling particularly young and was in just the right mood, Sherlock’s pacifier. But Sherlock’s mind was moving too quickly, his nerves too frazzled to feel as if he could allow himself the comfort of slipping. He was worried about how young he might go, worried about the force of the neediness pulling at the back of his mind. As it was, he hadn’t been able to let himself fall down to his usual age, and he knew he was hovering around a teenaged-mindset, only young enough for snark and sullenness. 

He envied John the ability to slip down so quickly. He also could not help but feel a sense of guilt; he knew John must have been exhausted after keeping 24-hour watch over Sherlock for the past three days. It was no wonder he released himself from the bulk of responsibility as soon as he knew Sherlock was being looked after well. Sherlock could see the dark circles under John’s eyes even as he slept with the Peter Rabbit pacifier snugly between his lips, had noticed them, too, last night, after John had fallen asleep in Sherlock’s bed. 

Sherlock had been planning to refuse to go to the lake house. He didn’t know if he could handle a weekend away without becoming more vulnerable than he wanted to, without letting the sense of purposelessness plunge him into depression and anger and neediness. Age play was in large part about a loss of control, and Sherlock worried that if he allowed himself to sink down right now, he would lose even the small semblance of control he had always been able to retain while little. And that terrified him.

But it was clear John needed a break. Sherlock knew if he refused, John would refuse as well out of loyalty and protectiveness. There was also a very slim possibility of Mycroft and Greg leaving Sherlock alone at Baker Street. It wasn’t as if the men were new to Sherlock’s post-case mood swings. There was a high probability that they had planned the last minute trip specifically because John had told them Sherlock was in a bad place. So Sherlock hadn’t fought the trip. But agreeing to go didn’t mean that he’d agree to be little. He would soldier through without slipping, and thus he would stay in control, fully in charge of his own faculties. 

But in order to stay even remotely aged up, he needed a distraction.

“Uncle Greg, just five minutes with my mobile? Please? I’ll give it back right after I check something,” Sherlock said, masking the frustration in his voice and attempting to sound sweet.

“Sorry, buddy,” Greg said, and Sherlock could see him shaking his head. “You heard the rules before we left: no technology this weekend unless it’s supervised and on my or your brother’s timeline.”

Sherlock could stand it no longer. He was trapped in the car and felt nothing but anger, frustration, and helplessness. Kicking Greg’s seat forcefully, he could not help but yell.

“Damn you and your fucking rules! I’m an adult!”

Mycroft spun in his seat to stare at Sherlock in shock.

“Sherlock, control yourself,” he warned.

But Sherlock was too far gone to obey. He slammed his feet against the back of the driver’s seat and hit his fists against the car door and the seat beside him, then kicked over the bag of kid’s toys Mycroft had left on the floor between Sherlock and John’s seats. 

“No! I hate you and I hate this fucking trip and I want to go home!” Sherlock shouted, fully aware he was behaving like anything except a rational adult but unable to keep himself calm. It felt good to prod and yell, and swearing and sassing his brother kept him from slipping down into the neediness of a younger headspace. 

John had blinked awake in the seat beside Sherlock as soon as the tantrum began. He was now staring wide-eyed at Sherlock, pacifier bobbing up and down in his mouth as he sucked nervously, his lion clutched to his chest.

“That’s it,” Mycroft said, face hard and voice angry. He had waited out Sherlock’s tantrum, one hand reached out and placed on John’s knee for comfort while he simply stared until Sherlock had exhausted himself and sat quiet and limp in the seat. “We’ve given you plenty of leeway this morning, Sherlock, but that type of language and behavior is unacceptable. You will be punished.”

“Ooh, I’m terrified,” Sherlock spat with snark and sarcasm in his voice. “What are you going to do, spank me?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m going to do,” Mycroft asserted. 

“Like hell you are,” Sherlock said, sitting up and scowling at his brother.

“You’re not as aged up as you’d like to believe right now, Sherlock,” Greg said from the front seat. “And even if you were currently adult, your behavior is unacceptable.”

Sherlock crossed his arms and glared at Mycroft. He would not let them spank him. He placed his hand over the buckle of the seatbelt and lodged his feet into either side of the passenger seat. If they were going to force him to move, Sherlock would ensure they would not have an easy time of it.


	3. Rest Stop Spankings and Car Seat Wettings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters for you in one day because I've been so infrequent with updating.
> 
> Warnings for spanking and wetting. Thanks for kudos/comments!
> 
> Edited after "Little John and Uncle Greg" was posted to make up for some continuity issues :)

Greg pulled into a rest area and parked at the far end of the parking lot, where there were very few scattered cars. He and Mycroft, after setting the child locks to keep Sherlock and John inside, got out of the car and shared a quick conversation. Sherlock could catch his name and “Bunny” spoken on their lips when they turned to glance back at them, but otherwise the men stayed turned with their backs to Sherlock, more than likely for exactly the reason that Sherlock was skilled at reading lips.

“Sherlock, what’s wrong?” John asked, and Sherlock could see the man hovering between headspaces, John’s protectiveness forcing him out of his young headspace for a moment. It was clear the man was attempting to decide whether Sherlock needed him to age up. Sherlock did not want to cause John any further stress. He’d already put him through enough these past three days; John deserved the release that came from innocence and lack of responsibility.

“I’m just frustrated, little Bunny,” Sherlock said. 

John seemed to relax a bit at Sherlock’s nickname, which Sherlock indeed had used in order to tell the man it was alright for him to stay small.

“You said naughty words,” Bunny said.

Sherlock nodded and shrugged, then turned to stare out the window. It was becoming increasingly clear that he would not be able to get out of a spanking without another tantrum, and at the moment Sherlock felt too exhausted and too upset that he had already worried the Bunny to continue putting up much of a fight.

Bunny took Sherlock’s hand and squeezed it. Sherlock turned and smiled gratefully; John’s goodness shone through even when the man was in headspace in the same way that Sherlock knew his selfishness and irrationality shone through when he himself sunk down. He wished he were better behaved, wished he didn’t feel such a blinding desire to act out and strop.

“I’ll try to be good,” he said, allowing himself a small bit of vulnerability in Bunny's presence. Bunny unbuckled his seatbelt and scooted across the middle seat until he could wrap his arms around Sherlock and rest his head on the man’s shoulder. 

“Bunny hug,” he said, rubbing his nose against Sherlock’s neck until the detective broke down and smiled. 

Greg and Mycroft were walking back to the car, clearly having decided on a plan of action. They opened the door on Sherlock’s side of the car, where both boys were now huddled.

“Bun, come on with me and let’s use the loo,” Greg said, holding out his hand. “Your brother and Mycroft will join us in a moment and we’ll all have some lunch, okay?”

Bunny glanced up at Sherlock, who nodded. He knew John (and, thus, Bunny) always needed to pee when he woke after sleeping, and as much as Sherlock wanted to keep Bunny close in order to prevent his own spanking--Both John and Bunny disliked when Sherlock was spanked, so Mycroft and Greg made sure to do it out of sight of the younger boy whenever possible--he certainly did not want to be the one to cause Bunny any trouble getting to the loo. He had already manipulated the man into a pull-up; he didn’t want to cause him an accident, too.

Bunny clambered over Sherlock’s legs to leave the car, and the boys got tangled in a mess of limbs for a moment before Greg reached and yanked Bunny from the car by his armpits, smiling. He coaxed the pacifier out from between Bunny's lips and slipped it into his pocket. Bunny looked distressed for a moment, but Greg took his hand and told him he could have it back as well as his lion right after they used the loo and got some food.

“See you in a few minutes, kid,” Greg said quietly to Sherlock with a wink. Sherlock sighed, knowing Greg was only trying to help but hating the way he felt so patronized and belittled. He wasn’t little. Well, he wasn’t fully little.

By the time Greg closed the door, Mycroft had opened the door on the other side of the car and was climbing into the seat Bunny had vacated a few moments prior. He said nothing. Sherlock realized he was hoping Sherlock would say something first because he more than likely assumed that might minimize Sherlock’s outbursts. But Sherlock was frustrated with Mycroft most of all. It was Mycroft who had organized the trip, Mycroft who had woken them up far too early that morning. He was not going to make it easy for big brother.

“Twenty swats,” Mycroft said. “Five for each swear word.”

Sherlock gaped at his brother.

“Fifteen,” he said, hating himself for negotiating the number of spanks he would receive but also somehow desperate to be over his brother’s knee and being shown his place.

Mycroft shook his head. 

“This is not a negotiation, Sherlock.”

“‘Hell’ isn’t a swear word, Mycroft,” Sherlock argued. “I only said three swear words. So, fifteen.”

“And you believe little boys should be allowed to use the word ‘hell’ when talking to their guardians?”

Sherlock huffed.

“I’m not a little boy right now, Mycroft, although no one seems to have noticed. I’m probably seventeen at the youngest.”

Mycroft cocked his head. “I’d say fourteen, if you want to get technical. You forget, brother mine, that I’ve seen all your ages.”

And, in the quiet of the car and the reminder of his brother’s care, Sherlock gave in.

“Please, Mycroft,” he said quietly. “I need you to.”

Mycroft nodded and ordered Sherlock over his knees. It was a bit of an awkward fit in the back seat of the car, but with Mycroft in the middle seat and Sherlock’s legs bent at the knees to come up against the car door, they were quickly situated. 

“Pants down,” Mycroft said, and Sherlock argued for a moment but then acquiesced. He knew Mycroft was only trying to help, only trying to embarrass and belittle Sherlock because he knew it would give him an impetus for slipping down in headspace. It was the same reason Mycroft reached beneath to check the state of Sherlock’s pull-up before he yanked it down past his brother’s hips, leaving him bare-bottomed.

“Good boy,” he said, “you’re still dry,” and Sherlock blushed so hard he could feel his face warming. His bladder had been full for some time now, and the need to pee combined with his brother's praise was almost enough to slam him down into a young headspace right then. But he pulled himself back up; he wasn't ready just yet. 

“Count for me, brother mine,” Mycroft reminded.

Mycroft was doing well; he always knew just how to help Sherlock slip when he felt unable to. The younger man pressed his face into the car seat and waited for the first strike. It came quickly and harshly, Mycroft’s hand smacking against his bare skin. Mycroft began high up, just below Sherlock’s lower back. Sherlock yelped and, after recovering for a moment, began counting. Mycroft’s spanking moved down Sherlock’s bottom until he was hitting right against his seat, always the most painful for Sherlock. 

He gritted out numbers nine and ten before begging Mycroft to stop. 

“I’m sorry,” he called, jaw clenched from pain. “I won’t do it again. Please, My.”

But he hoped to god that Mycroft would not stop. The pain was settling him, grounding him, and pulling him away from the thoughts racing through his mind. With each smack reddening his bare bottom, Sherlock felt a bit of his anger and sullenness slip away. Mycroft was taking care of him. Sherlock didn’t have to be alone.

“Count, Sherlock,” Mycroft said when he forgot to count twelve and thirteen.

“Only fifteen, My, please,” he said, feeling his eyes watering from the pain.

But Mycroft continued until Sherlock had been spanked twenty times. The detective was a snivelling mess when his brother was finished with him, heart pounding and hair mussed from where his head had thrashed against the car seat. 

Mycroft ran his hand slowly against Sherlock’s bum, soothing the reddened skin as he always had after he’d spanked Sherlock as a child.

“I’m sorry, My,” Sherlock sniffled, and Mycroft pat his bum and let him up off his lap. He brushed the hair from Sherlock’s eyes as the now-slightly-younger boy pulled up his pull-up and re situated his pants into place.

“You need to be a good boy, yeah?” Mycroft asked, and Sherlock, eyes downcast, nodded.

“Let’s get some food in that belly, alright?” Mycroft suggested, rolling down his sleeves so he could put his suit coat back on before they went inside. Sherlock would tease his brother later for being the only man who wore a suit on vacation.

Sherlock could feel himself younger than before, less wild in the mind. But he was still unsure of himself, and anxious about going into a public space. He knew he would be pulled immediately out of any younger headspace were he to be surrounded by strangers, and then Mycroft’s spanking would have all been for nothing.

“Not hungry,” he said, slumping down into the seat and resting his knees against the back of the driver’s seat.

Mycroft clucked his tongue. “Come, now, Lock. You need to eat something.”

Sherlock shook his head. 

“I’ll get really big again, Myc,” he said quietly, staring at his knees.

Mycroft sighed. 

“Alright, bud,” he said. “But you should come in to use the loo. I’ll stay with you the entire time. We’ll go right in and right out.”

Sherlock shook his head again. 

“I don’t have to go,” Sherlock said. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft warned, knowing his brother could not possibly be telling the truth. They had been driving for nearly three hours, and Sherlock had liquids with breakfast.

“I don’t have to go bad,” Sherlock amended. He caught himself before claiming to be a big boy; he didn’t think he was young enough yet to need to emphasize his big boy status. 

“Sherlock, I think you should come try.”

“I’m wearing a pull-up, Mycroft,” Sherlock whined. “Isn’t that why you forced me to wear one?”

“You’d rather wet yourself than come inside to use the toilet?”

Sherlock hugged his arms around himself and shrugged, eyes downcast to the footwell of the car. He shifted where he sat, his bladder full and his bottom sore from the spanking. 

Mycroft sighed. 

“Alright, buddy,” he said. “Will you be alright alone for a moment while I go gather John and Greg?”

Sherlock nodded, then allowed his brother to play his stuffed alligator on the seat beside him as he cleaned up the toys from the bag Sherlock had kicked over earlier. 

“'Lock, if this is what you need,” Mycroft said as he exited the car, “It’s okay. I understand.” 

Mycroft closed the car door and left for the service station. Sherlock snatched up the stuffed alligator and hugged it to his chest as he reached to feel the pull-up between his legs. Mycroft didn’t understand. It wasn’t that Sherlock wanted to wet himself, exactly. It was just that his filling bladder and the possibility for an accident was helping him feel vulnerable and needy, helping him feel younger. Kids got caught in situations like this, desperate and afraid to go use the loo. The pull-up around his waist was suddenly more present, another reminder that he could sink down and still be safe. 

It was a lie when Sherlock said he hadn’t had to go badly. He’d been feeling the need for the loo for over 45 minutes, and had needed to hold between his legs a time or two during his tantrum to keep from leaking. His bladder had been ever-present during his spanking, and he’d needed to shift up onto his knees to keep his bladder from pressing sharply against Mycroft’s lap. He wouldn’t be able to hold it much longer, he knew. 

And suddenly he wanted to let go voluntarily, to soak the pull-up so much that it leaked all over the seat. He wanted to feel the release, wanted to slip down further and make Mycroft or Uncle Greg clean him up and calm his tears and maybe even chastise him or spank him again for waiting too long and not using the potty like a big boy. His bum was sore and red from Mycroft’s spanking; he already felt like such a little boy. But his adult mind was encroaching, ready to yank him back up out of headspace and leave him with nothing more than shame and questions and self-loathing.

In the end, the decision was almost taken out of Sherlock’s hands. With a yelp he felt himself lose a spurt of urine into the waiting pull-up. He hunched over and pressed his hands between his legs to stop himself, but his face was flushed and his mind soothed by the slight indiscretion. He wanted to lose himself completely; he needed the release. It seemed that, once again, Mycroft had known what Sherlock needed before he even had known himself.

And with a small moan and his eyes squeezed shut, Sherlock began to pee in his pants. He spread his legs and leaned back against the seat as urine began to pulse warm and wet into the pull-up, saturating the crotch and then spreading down against his already warmed bum. The stream was strong and fast, and Sherlock could hear the pee exiting his body and streaming into the pull-up until the training diaper was thick and heavy. 

But it was nothing more than a kid’s bedwetting diaper, and it could not hold the contents of a grown man’s bladder. Soon, Sherlock’s hand in his crotch was becoming wet as the pee streamed through the legholes of the diaper and soaked into his jeans and down onto the car seat. He reveled in the wetness, feeling so young and helpless that there were tears in his eyes. He hoped it would never stop. He pushed his bladder when the stream began to die down, wanting to become as soaked and saturated with urine as he possibly could, using his hands to splash the warm liquid from where it was puddled between his legs on the carseat up and onto dry areas of his jeans.

And, when he had finished, when he sat staring down at the mess he had made of himself and the carseat, when he realized he’d just had an accident like a bad boy and that Mycroft and Uncle Greg would be upset with him and that Bunny--who had gone with Uncle Greg to use the loo like a big boy--would see that he really wasn’t anything more than a wet-pants baby, when, more than anything, he realized with relief that he was finally in a young headspace, he began to cry. 

Sherlock cried loudly, rubbing tears from his eyes. And when he caught sight through the car window of Uncle Greg, Mycroft, and Bunny walking back across the parking lot towards him, Bunny licking at an ice cream cone and Mycroft clutching a wrapped up sandwich Sherlock knew he would try to get him to eat, he cried louder, trying to use his hands to cover up the massive accident he had just had. He cried because he had wet himself and because Bunny had gotten ice cream and Sherlock hadn’t. But, most of all, he cried because it felt good to, because he was finally young; he cried because he knew Mycroft, Bunny, and Uncle Greg would wipe away the tears.


	4. Clean up and Ice Cream Cones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi lovelies--You've all been incredibly sweet when leaving comments and kudos--thank you! I'm going to respond to comments in just a minute, but thought I would go ahead and post a short update in the mean time. This chapter is basically just fluff and cuteness--hopefully it will make you smile! Keep sending your ideas and I'll try to fit them in when I can! 
> 
> Also, I'm writing Weekend at the Lake as we go, but I do have a few other stories in this universe that are already written. Should I post one or two of those now, even though they take place a bit later in the progression of the universe, or should I hold off and continue to post everything chronologically so it doesn't get confusing? Let me know!
> 
> Hope everyone is doing well :)

Mycroft and Greg had responded far better to finding Sherlock sitting soaked in the backseat of the rental car than Sherlock would have expected. Bunny, who had, upon seeing the state of Sherlock’s trousers, offered Sherlock the rest of his ice cream cone in order to keep Sherlock from crying even more, stood watch outside the car while Greg passed Mycroft clean clothes from a suitcase in the trunk--a fresh pull-up, warm green sweatpants, and Sherlock’s pirate shirt. Mycroft climbed into the backseat beside his brother and helped Sherlock get out of his wet things. Greg also passed along a baseball cap, which Sherlock pulled down onto his head almost before Mycroft could get his shirt on. It had been Greg's idea, a way to keep Sherlock from becoming over-excited and thus liable to be jarred back up in age while he was little. The baseball cap not only kept Sherlock from feeling fully exposed to the world around him, but allowed him a narrower sightline. When he pulled the brim of the cap down over his eyebrows, Sherlock could limit the amount of stimulation entering into his vision each moment. It had been quite a feat to change the boy considering Sherlock refused to exit the car, but Mycroft was rather adept at dressing his brother, and aside from the near-tantrum Sherlock threw about not wanting to wear another pull-up, Sherlock was dressed and clean quickly.

"You know the rules," Mycroft had reminded. "An accident means a pull-up for the rest of the day." It was a rule set in place for both John and Sherlock, one that John had agreed to during one of his chats with Mycroft. 

Greg handled the clean-up of the car seat by finding a roll of paper towels from the grocery bags he had packed earlier that day as well as a bottle of water that he used to pour over the seat before mopping up the liquid, hoping to dilute the urine and avoid smells and stains. They lay a towel over the wet seat and shifted the boys over. Sherlock was buckled into Bunny’s old seat and John was happy enough to finish up his ice cream--Sherlock had refused when Bunny offered him the rest--in the middle seat, leaning against Sherlock’s shoulder. The detective generally refused any affection, but in this case he seemed content to have the little Bunny snuggled beside him as he yanked the sleeves of his pirate shirt down over his hands. 

“I’m a big boy,” he sniffled to the Bunny, who had rested his head on his shoulder.

Bunny nodded and held out his ice cream cone, now dripping over his hand. Sherlock leaned over to lick the melting treat, and Mycroft clucked his tongue and told Sherlock he should eat his sandwich before eating sweets, but even Little Sherlock could tell he was only speaking halfheartedly, and he said nothing as Sherlock continued to lick the ice cream cone.

Sherlock was now fully young, and he felt a quiet contentment in the backseat of the car, clean and dry and dressed in his pirate shirt. He had refused his alligator plush once the others were in the car, insisting he was a big boy with a cheeky smile that signaled to a relieved Mycroft that Sherlock had finally let himself release some stress, but Bunny was holding it for him along with Bunny’s lion. "In case you need him," Bunny had said, taking the stuffed toy from Mycroft after Sherlock turned up his nose at it. Sherlock was glad the gator toy was close; he was currently feeling as if it was fun and attention-seeking to profess his status as a big kid at every turn, but he also hadn't liked the idea of his alligator closed into the darkness of the trunk. 

Bunny was doing his best not to get ice cream on either of the toys or on Sherlock’s pirate shirt, but Bunny’s hands were sticky with melted ice cream, and Sherlock was grateful when Mycroft leaned back and asked the Bunny to hold out his hands so he could wipe them clean with a baby wipe. Both boys were sticky around their mouths with ice cream, but Sherlock didn't mind. 

Neither Sherlock nor the Bunny wanted the actual cone from their ice cream, so Bunny passed it up to Mycroft, who handed it off to Greg to eat while he drove. Sherlock leaned against the window, and, tired now that he had allowed himself to take stock of his mental and physical states, did not refuse when the Bunny passed him the alligator plush. 

“Gator wants you,” Bunny said, pushing the alligator plush into Sherlock’s lap, and Sherlock nodded and hugged the stuffed animal to his chest. 

The Bunny snuggled back into Sherlock’s side, his stuffed lion clutched in his arms. He closed his eyes and lifted his thumb to his mouth.

“Uncle Greg, the bunny needs his pacifier,” Sherlock called, and Lestrade pulled the Peter Rabbit pacifier from his shirt pocket and passed it back to Sherlock, who guided John’s thumb out of his mouth and then held it against the Bunny’s lips until he took it.

“How much longer ‘till we get there?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft and Uncle Greg shared a look, but there was less animosity and frustration in Uncle Greg’s voice when he spoke next.

“Just one more hour, kid,” he said. “We’ll be there before you know it.”

“Try to close your eyes and see if you can rest a bit,” Mycroft suggested.

“I’m a big boy,” Sherlock whined. “Don’t need a nap.”

“You don’t have to take a nap,” Mycroft said off-hand. “Just rest your eyes. Why don’t you see if you can tell me all the elements on the periodic table?”

Sherlock knew what Mycroft was trying to do. He knew his brother used to get him to list the elements as a way of calming Sherlock’s mind. The memories were there, in his mind palace: Mycroft rubbing his back and asking him to list the periodic table when they were kids after Sherlock had been woken up by a nightmare. Sherlock thought about stating once again that he wasn't a little kid, but he was warm and comfortable with the Bunny leaning up against him, and he didn’t feel like he should wake up his little brother just to gain himself some more attention. Besides, he did feel little at the moment, and, in the safety of the car with his little brother and his Mycroft and his Uncle Greg, that was okay. So he closed his eyes and began listing the elements one by one until Mycroft called him a smart boy and he fell fast asleep.


	5. Lake House Arrivals and Bunny Sniffles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always for your kind words! You're all so sweet and I'm glad you're enjoying reading as much as I love writing about little Sherlock and little Bunny. Let me know what you'd like to see while the boys are at the lake house!
> 
> It also seems like you guys are all for me uploading the stories that come later in the timeline, so I'll start uploading one of those in the next day or so--I might as well share them since they're already drafted!
> 
> This chapter begins in Sherlock's perspective and then switches over to our little Bunny's. I didn't have a ton of time to edit, so I apologize for any mistakes. Enjoy!
> 
> Update: Edited (twice) after "Little John and Uncle Greg" was posted to account for some continuity issues :)

The lake house was small but comfortable, all wooden beams and whitewashed furniture. There was a big kitchen attached to the living room, where large couches sat in front of a large television in a room surrounded by built-in bookcases, and a half bathroom just off the entryway. Upstairs were two bedrooms in addition to a master bedroom en-suite as well as a hallway bath. 

Sherlock was wide awake as soon as Mycroft reached back to pat his knee and explain to him and the Bunny that they had arrived, and he bounded out of the car and through the lake house with excitement.

“My room!” He said when he’d come across a blue child’s room with a green bedspread over the twin bed. 

The Bunny was still tired from the ride, and was being carried by Mycroft into the other children’s room across the hallway, this one decorated in purples and oranges. Sherlock told Uncle Greg it was a girl’s room, but Greg shushed him and told him there was no such thing as girl colors or boy colors after he told him to stop jumping on the bed. Uncle Greg removed Sherlock's baseball cap and brushed the hair from Sherlock’s flushed face--jumping had been hard work--and then helped him unpack his clothes and toys. 

“I’m sorry I was a bad boy who argued and whined and peed his pants, today, Uncle Greg,” Sherlock chattered as Lestrade handed him colorful pajamas and cartoon undies to place into the top drawer.

Greg placed the final items into the dresser and took a seat on the end the bed. He patted the mattress, signalling for Sherlock to take a seat beside him.

“It was hard for you to transition down, today, wasn’t it, buddy?” Greg asked, guiding Sherlock to look up at him by crooking his finger beneath his chin.

Sherlock nodded, then placed his thumb in his mouth. 

Greg clucked his tongue and reached into the pocket of Sherlock’s overnight bag and fished out a pirate pacifier. Sherlock only used it when he was feeling particularly young, and, even then, he often fought against using it. But, in that moment, away from home and London and the millions of people in the city, safe with his brother and Uncle Greg and his little Bunny, he felt protected. He took the pacifier and let Greg dress him in a warm jumper over his pirate shirt. 

“You can be as young as you’d like this weekend, kiddo,” Greg explained. “I know it’s been a hard few days. Let us take care of you, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Speaking of which,” Greg said as he pulled the last item from Sherlock’s overnight bag: a plastic mattress cover.

Sherlock made a face but did not argue. He did, however, bound out of the room and down the hallway, alligator clutched in his hand and pacifier bobbing in his mouth. He knew he should probably have a plastic sheet on the bed, but that didn’t mean he had to help Uncle Greg put it on or be there to watch him place the babyish sheet on the bed. He’d rather just pretend to be a big boy who didn’t need that. He settled himself down in the living room, where he upended the bag of Legos Uncle Greg had brought in from the car and began building a pirate ship, one with lots of space for big boy pirates who fought and stole and went on adventures. 

\----

John rubbed at his eyes, only feeling fully awake from the nap he had taken in the car as Mycroft carried him into a small, brightly colored bedroom and sat him down on the end of the bed which rested against the far wall, beneath windows looking out onto the lake. He was still sleepy from having just woken up, and felt a bit overwhelmed by suddenly being somewhere new and unknown. 

“Well, this is a nice room, isn't it, Bun?” Mycroft asked, and John, lion hugged to his chest with both arms, glanced around before looking confused. There was only one bed in the room, and it wasn’t as big as the bed he and Sherlock usually shared back at Baker Street.

“Sher’ock?” John asked around his pacifier.

“He’ll be just next door, little one,” Mycroft said as he smiled down at him. “And Uncle Greg and I will be just across from you in our bedroom.”

John blinked up at Mycroft, concerned. He’d always shared a room with Sherlock when he was little, because he’d always aged down only when he knew Sherlock would be young as well. It felt different and scary to have to sleep alone, and he shook his head to tell Mycroft as much.

“Need him, Daddy,” John said, voice quiet. He was feeling a bit non-verbal at the moment, struggling against the adult thoughts trying to enter into his mind which were currently difficult to process. He hadn't meant to call Mycroft "Daddy," worried that Sherlock might hear, not ready for Sherlock to know, but he was feeling a bit too young not to signal to Mycroft how much he needed him.

Mycroft lifted the man and placed him in his lap sideways as he sat on the edge of the bed. John looked up at the taller man, taking a small amount of comfort from being pressed close to him. He was grateful that Mycroft seemed to know how to keep him aged down because John did not want to age back up yet. He was feeling too vulnerable and shy to be an adult.

“Bunny, listen to me,” he said, and then waited quietly until John nodded, ready to hear him. “So far, you’ve usually been little at the same time as your brother. But as you get more comfortable being little, there might be more times when you’re feeling little but Sherlock isn’t. Or there might be another time when you’re little while Sherlock is away, like when Uncle Greg babysat. And when that happens, you won’t have Sherlock there to sleep in the same room as you.”

John whined, not liking that idea, but Mycroft rubbed his back and reminded him he was safe. 

“Uncle Greg and I think it might be good for you to keep learning how to be little without Sherlock, and one small step we can take to start that process is to try sleeping in separate rooms.”

John shook his head and burrowed into Mycroft’s chest.

“Too little,” he whined, feeling particularly young and afraid. “Too scary.”

“There, now,” Mycroft tutted, guiding John to look him in the eye. “Where’s my big strong Gryffindor, hm?”

John shrugged, and hugged Mycroft close.

“Oh, my little Bunny,” Mycroft whispered into John’s hair, cheek resting against John’s head. “If it’s all too much that’s okay. There’s a spare cot in the closet we can make up and put in Sherlock’s room, just in case. But Uncle Greg and I think this would be a good idea, just to try.”

John took a long time before answering. He wanted to be brave and strong like Harry Potter, and he wanted to make Uncle Greg, and especially Mycroft, proud, and he wanted to be a big boy like Sherlock. But it was scary to be little and by himself--the only time since he had started slipping down into headspace when he had been by himself for longer than a minute or two while little was the night after their case in Scotland. And that night had been stressful and scary and he had needed to process what he had been feeling for much of that evening with Mycroft in order to feel okay about it all. But Mycroft was looking down at him with nothing but confidence that this was something John could do, and if Mycroft believed in him, maybe he really could practice sleeping alone.

“Maybe, Daddy,” John said at last. “Maybe I can try like a big boy.”

“That’s my brave Bunny,” Mycroft said, smiling down at him with pride that made John feel braver than he had a moment ago. 

But when Mycroft lifted John and placed him on his feet, heading towards John’s overnight bag to begin unpacking, John froze. He could feel the pull-up between his legs. And he was damp. Not only that, he still had to pee. Badly. 

John hadn’t even known he’d had to go until that moment, and he’d already partially wet himself. When had it happened? He had gone to the loo only a few hours ago, at the rest stop. The fact that he had started to wet himself sometime between then and now without realizing it made his chest clench and his head pound with a panicky fear. This was not like the times he had known he was going to wet himself, like at the zoo, or the times he had chosen to wet himself, like the night with Greg or the morning after with Mycroft. He had wet himself without realizing it, and that was something he had not experienced since childhood. He wanted to hold himself, wanted to tell Mycroft he needed the loo or he was going to soak his pants as well as the pull-up, but he couldn’t speak. 

“Bunny? Are you okay, lad?” Mycroft had noticed something was off, was glancing up at John, who stood frozen in the middle of the room. 

“I...I can’t…” John was flustered. 

He didn’t know what to do. If he told Mycroft he needed the loo, the man would take him. But if he helped him out of his pants and pull-up, he would also know that John had already started wetting himself, and he would have to admit to him that he'd done it truly by accident, which scared him. It was one thing to choose to wet himself, it was another thing entirely to wet himself involuntarily; was he really so little that he had lost track of his own bladder? 

He suddenly remembered an afternoon in the backyard, playing with Harry. He had been young, maybe five or six, and they had been racing around playing superheroes, towels tied around their necks. It had been John who had ended the game, because he had suddenly bent over and began peeing into his pants, unable to stop once it started and red-cheeked with more than just exertion. He hadn’t even known he’d had to go, but suddenly the evidence was all over his trousers and down his legs, and Harry had been staring wide-eyed, one hand between her own legs almost as if she were sympathizing with him. He had been embarrassed to the point of tears when he approached his mother to tell her what had happened, unable to say anything and flushing red when Harry explained to her that he’d “gone potty.” And although he was not punished for wetting himself, the incident had shaken him up for weeks, had made him an even more cautious child.

Mycroft, for his part, seemed to have deduced what was wrong as John stood frozen in the purple room at the lake house.

“Do you need the loo, lad?” he asked, standing to approach John.

John started to cry, something somewhat rare for John while in headspace and admittedly usually tied to embarrassment. He said nothing but he did nod as he squeezed his legs together and reached down to press against the front of his pull-up, feeling another spurt of wetness escape him. 

“Hafta wee,” he finally admitted, voice loud and desperate. 

Mycroft lifted the man by the armpits and carried him down the hallway to the bathroom where he whisked off John’s pants and, after situating him by the toilet, pulled down the now soaked pull-up before helping him to sit. John finished his wee in the toilet, wet pull-up hanging around his ankles as he cried. 

Greg knocked on the door to ask if everything was alright, obviously having heard the commotion, and Mycroft called that they were just fine as he rubbed John’s hand and told him he was a good boy. 

There was only the sound of John’s pee for a moment more until his bladder was empty, and even after he was finished Mycroft allowed him to sit in silence for a long time, until he was ready to speak. Mycroft had taken a seat on the edge of the bathtub, and John was grateful that the man always seemed to know when he needed space to process. 

“I don’t want to wear pull-ups,” John said at last, and there was an edge to his voice. John was no longer fully child. 

“Bunny,” Mycroft warned, and John knew he was about to remind him of the rules. 

Wet pants meant a pull-up for the rest of the day. That was the rule. But for John in that moment, it was too much to think about slipping into another pull-up. He hadn’t wet himself without realizing it since he was an actual child, and although his returning adult mind knew there were a multitude of other factors at play, he felt that wearing the pull-up had somehow regressed him to a point where he’d lost track of his body’s needs. 

“Do you need to age up so we can talk about this?” Mycroft asked.

But John shook his head. He didn't want to admit what had happened to Mycroft. He wasn't ready. 

“Can’t yet,” he said.

He needed more time to process before he could talk with Mycroft. And the best way to do so would be to give himself some space and time, space and time best spent little so he didn’t stress himself out with overthinking and overanalyzing. If he was little, he wouldn't feel self-conscious about asking for the comfort he knew he needed just then. 

John kicked the heavy pull-up off of his ankles and let it slip over his feet until it rested on the floor. He could see where it was swollen and yellow from his accident. 

“Big boy undies,” John said, and when Mycroft looked skeptical, he begged. "Please, Daddy," he said. 

Mycroft, sighing, nodded. "Just this once. And don't tell your brother," he said, and John agreed quickly, although he felt a twinge of guilt over all of the secrets he and Mycroft had lately been keeping from Sherlock.

He was wiped down and dressed in a clean pair of Harry Potter cartoon briefs in a few quick moments, the evidence of his accident balled up and thrown away. But although he made Mycroft promise not to tell Sherlock he had wet himself--he hadn’t been able to convince him not to tell Uncle Greg--John still felt vulnerable and needy. He clung to Mycroft and sucked hard on his pacifier, letting himself slip back down in age, and not even Sherlock telling him stories about the pirate ship he was building could keep him from feeling moments away from confused tears.


	6. Family Dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update for all of you lovelies! Your comments make me smile so much and I'm so glad you're enjoying the story. 
> 
> This chapter is one of the first that really delves into the dynamic between the four characters as a unit, so it's been challenging fun to write. The next chapter will explore the boys' first nights sleeping apart, which I know some of you commented you're interested to see. 
> 
> I'll be posting the beginning of a new story in this series soon. The one I'll post is mainly focused on little John (who I'm recently obsessed with), but I know a lot of you are just as (if not moreso) interested in seeing Little Sherlock, so I'll do my best to have the next one I add focused on little 'Lock.
> 
> Confession: I made up all of the lake facts that Sherlock spouts at the dinner table ;)
> 
> Edited for continuity after "Uncle Greg and Little John" was updated.

Mycroft and Greg had planned a low-key afternoon and evening for their boys, knowing Sherlock particularly would still be in an adjustment stage as he continued to slip more resolutely into headspace. Travelling always made for trying days and there was no telling how difficult it might be to put the boys down in separate rooms; Greg and Mycroft planned dinner, a movie, and then lights out. Mycroft was particularly glad they had made the arrangements for an afternoon in after helping John to clean up from his accident; it was clear the man needed quiet space to process without over stimulation. The boys played with their toys in the living room while Mycroft and Greg began preparing for an early dinner. 

“The Bunny doesn't look too good,” Greg said with concern in his voice, glancing across the room at John, who was not playing but sat hugging his lion to him and sucking on his pacifier as he watched Sherlock build with Legos. 

“He had a little accident just now,” Mycroft said, voice quiet to keep the boys from hearing. “I think he's rather distressed by it because it seemed to catch him off guard.”

Greg, who had been gathering vegetables to cut up for a salad, paused and glanced up at Mycroft. 

Mycroft had, with John’s permission, explained to Greg what John had admitted to after wetting himself at the zoo, that there was a part of him that had enjoyed it, that he was interested in exploring more. It had calmed Greg a bit in the days following the zoo trip; he had been rather distraught over John’s accident at the zoo because he had felt responsible in many ways. Mycroft had found it endearing how apologetic the man had been. He had clearly been concerned that Mycroft would be angry, that he would interpret John's accident as a sign that Greg had neglected care for the boys in some way. It also meant that Greg had been somewhat prepared when John subsequently wet himself the night they were alone and he was babysitting, which had been a plus as it had made for the least amount of stress on John's part. After the night Greg babysat, John had been the one, following Mycroft's insistence that he needed to come to terms with this part of himself, to explain to Greg what he got from wetting himself, how he felt and how he wanted to continue the practice. Greg had assured John, just as Mycroft had, that it was all fine. But, if they were honest with themselves, both Mycroft and Greg were still attempting to decipher exactly what it meant that John wanted to explore wetting, exactly where the man's head was at, and exactly how they could best help John and meet his needs. John’s accident in his pull-up that afternoon would not help matters; it had simply left Mycroft, and, he assumed, John, with more questions than before.

Mycroft realized he had not had a moment to touch base with Greg regarding the events of that morning. He was glad to be able to process a bit with him now. “John admitted this morning that he’s been interested in wearing Sherlock’s pull-ups again. But I don't think he had prepared himself for the fact that he might actually wet one, and that upset him. It seemed to be a genuine accident, at least partly.”

“Poor kid,” Greg said, bringing the vegetables to the sink to wash them. “It can't be easy to not even always understand your own feelings about something so emotionally taxing.”

Mycroft placed a pot of water onto the stove and set it to begin boiling for the pasta. 

“He begged me afterwards to let him wear underwear,” Mycroft said, realizing they would need to keep a closer watch on the boy in case he showed signs of needing the loo. “And I agreed.”

Greg quirked an eyebrow at his boyfriend. “Pushover,” he smirked. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes but did not attempt to defend himself. He held a special place for John. Perhaps it was because he felt extremely grateful that the man had entered his brother’s life, had become someone who cared for and watched out for Sherlock, which lessened Mycroft's own worry for his brother. If he were honest with himself, he felt indebted to John; he wanted nothing more than to care for the man who was single-handedly saving his brother one day at a time. But Mycroft felt just as much of a protective streak for John as he did for his own little brother. Besides, John was simply an adorable little, and it didn't hurt that Mycroft enjoyed being called "Daddy," that the name endeared the man to him. In any case, Mycroft certainly couldn't say no to the man when he asked for something. It was a good thing the little Bunny was so well behaved; Mycroft didn't know if he’d ever be able to punish the boy.

“Did he age up to process with you?” Greg asked.

Mycroft poured the pasta into the now boiling water.

“No,” he said. “There was a slight moment when he began to age up, but it was clear he wasn't ready to come out of headspace yet. He needs more time to process what happened and how he’s feeling before he’ll be ready to chat.” 

Greg nodded, tearing lettuce and tossing it into a big wooden bowl.

“We just need to give him love right now,” Mycroft said. “Make him know he's cared for and has us here for him. Too often he thinks he's alone.”

When Greg nodded, Mycroft turned away and noticed the little Bunny entering the kitchen. He was rubbing his eyes--still tired, then. Mycroft and Greg had decided to skip an afternoon nap for the boys given that they had slept in the car, but now Mycroft was second guessing that decision in regards to his sleepy little bunny.

“Hey, kiddo,” Greg smiled. “Want to help us cook dinner?”

John nodded slowly, then raised his arms to Mycroft, signaling that he wanted to be picked up. Generally, Mycroft carried John up to bed, but it seemed now that the boy just wanted to be held. Mycroft wasn't sure just how long he would be able to hold the man on his hip, but he lifted him without a second thought and let John wrap his arms around his neck. The boy was far more clingy than Sherlock had ever been and probably ever would be, but Mycroft found it adorable, although a bit worrying if indicative of John’s current mental state. 

Helping with dinner seemed to be a relative term for the Bunny, who enjoyed pointing to various items whenever Uncle Greg asked “what next?” but otherwise stayed attached to Mycroft with his head against the man’s shoulder. John was clearly non-verbal at the moment, a stark contrast to the babbling diatribe they could hear from Sherlock in the living room, where the detective narrated dark and detailed storylines of piracy.

Mycroft poured juice which he diluted with water--Greg was always joking that they were not real children and thus did not need their sugar intake monitored quite so closely, but Mycroft would hear none of it--into two sippy cups as Greg took the chicken from the oven and began slicing it into small pieces for the boys. He passed the teal sippy cup to John, who held onto it but did not remove his pacifier to drink from it. Mycroft knew the boy liked having things to hold, that it somehow comforted him, and that they might have a fussy boy when they tried to remove his pacifier and ask him to eat dinner. Giving John the sippy cup early served to prepare the boy for having to remove his paci when dinner began.

“Five more minutes and then you go wash up for dinner, ‘Lock,” Mycroft called into the other room, warning his brother in advance that playtime would soon be over. Even adult Sherlock disliked sitting down for a meal; without proper warning, calling little Sherlock to come eat could lead to some of the most wild tantrums they'd faced. 

Luckily, it seemed Sherlock was not in the mood to strop, and it only took two requests and one threat of a time-out to get the boy to leave his pirate ship behind and rush to the loo off the hallway to wash his hands. 

“Why don't you try to use the toilet, buddy?” Mycroft asked as he stood in the doorway to supervise Sherlock’s hand washing. 

“I’m a big boy,” Sherlock said. “Like a pirate, right Myc?”

Mycroft smiled and nodded. “Just like, bud. Now show your little brother how big boys use the loo.”

Sherlock sighed; Mycroft knew that, even regressed, Sherlock knew when he was being manipulated into doing something he didn't necessarily want to do, but this time he did not argue. He pushed down his pants and pull-up and, sitting down, peed in the toilet. 

“Good boy,” Mycroft praised.

Sherlock shrugged off the compliment as he flushed the loo.

“Does Bunny need to wee?” Sherlock asked before moving to wash his hands.

But John had turned his face into Mycroft’s neck. He shook his head fiercely, and Mycroft suspected he was being reminded of his earlier wetting. 

“I don't think so,” Mycroft said, not wanting to push the man if it would upset him. “We’ll let him try after dinner, how does that sound?”

Sherlock shrugged and pushed his way past Mycroft out of the bathroom. Mycroft thought he could feel John almost imperceptibly nod at the suggestion that they would try after dinner, which was a relief.

“Hands all washed?” Greg was asking Sherlock when Mycroft entered the kitchen and placed John in a chair that Greg pulled away from the table. 

Sherlock nodded and clambered into a chair on the other side of the table, his limbs always loose and awkward when he was fully regressed. John whined when he was no longer being held in Mycroft’s arms, but he settled a bit when Mycroft sat next to him and patted his knee. 

Greg filled the boys’ plates and then Mycroft’s and his own, and they all began eating, hungry after the travels of the day. Sherlock was scooping large bites of pasta and chicken into his mouth until Mycroft reminded him to slow down and chew.

“Do you know there’s probably diseased frogs in the lake down there?” Sherlock asked, gesturing with his child’s size fork over his shoulder, where the lake lay beyond the sliding glass door. 

“Is that right, hon?” Mycroft asked, cutting up Bunny’s food into even smaller pieces than Greg already had and trying to get John to take hold of his superhero fork. 

Sherlock took two large bites and nodded. “Yeah-huh. And probably lots of dead fish because lakes are prone to bacterial disease.”

“Don't talk with your mouth full, Sherlock,” Greg chuckled as he shared an amused look with Mycroft. Mycroft was glad to see his brother eating hungrily after not eating anything more substantial than ice cream for lunch. He reached to take the pacifier from John’s mouth, wanting both of his boys to get something good into them before the end of the night. John whined a bit but did not give Mycroft too much of a fight when the pacifier was taken away. 

“It’s true, Uncle Greg,” Sherlock said, “Lakes are temperamental and people swim and introduce bad bacterial microbes into the water that aren't indigenous to the ecosystem.”

“Eat a few bites, Bun,” Mycroft suggested to John even as he nodded at Sherlock’s prattling on about lakes and food chains. He placed the baby fork into John’s hand. But John just rubbed at his eyes and pushed the food around on his plate. 

“And then all the animals like the frog mommies and daddies catch diseases and pass them on to their babies,” Sherlock nearly shouted in his glee at being able to explain what he knew. “And their babies and the fish are all failing and dying earlier than they’re supposed to. And Mycroft, Bunny wants you to feed him. And can we go see the frogs in the lake tomorrow?”

Mycroft and Greg both stared at Sherlock, who was waiting for their answer to his question.

“Of course, sweetheart,” Greg said. “But what did you say about the Bunny?”

Sherlock took a bite of salad and then, after he made a face, spit it back onto his plate.

“Don't like it,” he said, rubbing fingers against his tongue.

“Bud, did the Bunny tell you he wanted to be fed?” Mycroft asked, ignoring for the moment how much of a drama queen Sherlock was being about his vegetables. 

“No,” he shrugged. “I can just tell. Right, Bunny?”

They all turned to look at John, who blinked up at Sherlock, turned to Mycroft, and then nodded slowly. 

“See?” Sherlock nearly shouted. “Told you! I told you!”

Greg reached over and placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Alright, ‘Lock.”

“But I told him, Uncle Greg. Didn't I tell him?”

“You're a very smart boy, kid,” Greg said, glancing towards a surprised Mycroft and a now bashful little Bunny. Mycroft could see that Greg knew he needed to give Mycroft some semblance of privacy with Bunny, even if there was no way he could leave them alone at the table. “But even smart boys have to eat their salad if they want popcorn and dessert during movie night,” Greg said.

“Movie night?” Sherlock asked, leaping up to kneel on his chair. “Can we watch Pirates of the Caribbean, Uncle Greg?”

As Greg began explaining to Sherlock why Pirates of the Caribbean was too mature of a movie for Bunny and little Sherlock to watch, Mycroft turned to John. He took John’s fork gently from the boy’s hand and picked up a piece of chicken with it. John blinked up at him with a shy smile as Mycroft guided it towards John, and then opened his mouth to accept the small bite.

“That's a good boy,” Mycroft said. John smiled at the praise. 

Dinner seemed to progress normally after that moment. Sherlock, having finally agreed to the compromise of watching Land Before Time but only if he was allowed to explain the scientific inaccuracies of prehistoric times as they watched, continued to prattle on about whatever popped into his mind, and Mycroft and Greg entertained his notions while they ate and Bunny remained silent. And although Mycroft fed Bunny between bites of his own food, there was very little that was different about their family meal.

Mycroft felt pleased, content that, albeit with Sherlock’s help, John had asked for what he needed and he had been able to give him exactly that. 

“The little one’s got you wrapped around your little finger,” Greg had teased after dinner as the boys colored in the living room and he and Mycroft took care of the dishes. 

“He does not,” Mycroft argued even as he knew the words were empty. 

Greg snorted and, after wiping his soapy hands on a dishcloth, pulled Mycroft to him and kissed him. 

“Just be careful our little pirate doesn't get jealous,” he said as they pulled apart. 

Mycroft glanced into the living room to see Sherlock, who had clearly been watching them and had witnessed their kiss, stick out his tongue in a gesture of disgust. He had never been a proponent of seeing Mycroft and Greg in any type of romantic situation. He quickly lost attention as Greg and Mycroft laughed, and returned to telling Bunny which colors he should use on his princess coloring page. 

“I'll finish the dishes and start the popcorn,” Greg said, squeezing Mycroft’s hand. “You're on pajama duty.”

Mycroft began to argue, but Greg held up a hand to silence him.

“How soon we forget who cleaned urine off of the car seat this afternoon,” Greg said, and Mycroft, sighing yet smirking, conceded.

“Alright, time for all good pirates and dinosaurs and princesses and Gryffindors to get into jammies and get nice and comfy for movie night,” Mycroft called into the living room from his place in the kitchen even as he kept eye contact with Greg. “Last one upstairs is a rotten egg!” 

The boys took off clumsily, leaving scattered crayons and coloring books in their giggling haste to race each other upstairs.

Mycroft followed close behind, and, for once, the stress of London and governmental responsibilities and the constant worry about his brother’s welfare seemed far from his mind.

\----


	7. Bedtime Routines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, lovies! This week's been a bit stressful and unpredictable, so I've taken some comfort in writing. That means more updates for all of you amazing readers which will hopefully make your weeks a bit better, too :) 
> 
> This is the bedtime chapter, and it's from little John's perspective, but the next is from little Sherlock's. I know a lot of you have been waiting for some more little 'Lock, so I'll upload that today, too, since it's already written. This chapter references the chat Mycroft and John have in "Uncle Greg and Little John" when Mycroft comes home after John has wet himself and first called Mycroft "Daddy," but that chat isn't uploaded to that story yet (it should be soon). Even so, it shouldn't be confusing without that context. For some reason I was inspired to continue this guy first, and next I'll get back to Uncle Greg and Little John. Thanks for bearing with me and my random inspirations!
> 
> Take care of yourselves, all--sending love :)

Mycroft had distracted John with warm milk in his sippy cup and bedtime stories, but John could not help but feel alone and adrift without Sherlock in the bed beside him. John could hear the detective prattling on to Uncle Greg across the hallway, in the blue and green bedroom, and he wished he were with him in the purple room, lying next to him on the bed. The lake house was new and scary; John was afraid of sleeping alone.

“Okay, hon,” Mycroft said, closing the storybook--The Velveteen Rabbit--and standing from where he had been sitting on the edge of John’s bed, “Time for lights out.”

John had his fingers in his mouth. He was feeling particularly young, surprisingly close to tears. Mycroft leaned down to kiss him on the forehead and bring the blankets up beneath his chin. 

“Daddy?” He whispered as Mycroft stood up.

“Yes, love?” 

John was definitely not ready for Sherlock to know that John had started calling Mycroft daddy, was nervous that Sherlock would tease or even that he would be hurt, and so had been careful since the night with Uncle Greg when he had first called Mycroft Daddy not to call Mycroft anything other than his name when Sherlock was in earshot. He was worried about Sherlock’s reaction, knowing it might change something between Sherlock and Mycroft. But when they were alone, as they were now because Mycroft had volunteered to put John to bed while Uncle Greg took care of getting Sherlock to bed, he did not feel the need to censor himself.

“I need to say ‘goodnight’ to ‘Lock.”

“You said 'goodnight' to him after you brushed your teeth, remember?”

John pulled on his bottom lip.

“Need to say ‘goodnight’ again?” he tried.

Mycroft smiled down at John. “Okay, sweet boy. Let's say another quick 'goodnight' to your brother and then it's time for sleep.”

John nodded and took Mycroft’s hand as he climbed out of bed and was led into the hallway. Sherlock was prancing around the room giggling as Uncle Greg held out his pajama pants, and John could see that he had just been changed into a new pull-up for bed; there was a wet one on the end of the bed where he must have been stripped of it. Sherlock wore nothing but his dinosaur pajama shirt and his pull-up; Uncle Greg was holding the matching pajama pants. 

John had been careful to pay attention to his body throughout the evening, knowing that Mycroft had dressed him in big boy panties even though he had wet himself without realizing it earlier in the day. He had been starting to feel less nervous about the accident because he’d made it to the loo whenever he needed it that night, and his undies were still dry. He didn't need pull-ups. John had worn a pull-up to bed the night Uncle Greg babysat, and it had made him feel safe then, but he was glad Mycroft had not asked him to wear one that first night at the lake house. He needed to be a big boy. 

“My!” Sherlock yelled, launching himself at his brother for a quick hug before extricating himself from Mycroft’s arms and returning to bouncing around the room. “Uncle Greg said he’d read three books tonight!”

Sherlock climbed over and jumped off the spare cot Uncle Greg had set up in Sherlock’s room in case John got scared and decided after all that he wanted to sleep with Sherlock. He picked up a plastic dinosaur from where it had been left on the bedside table and made growling noises as he guided it to fly through the air. John could see Uncle Greg look at his Daddy with raised eyebrows.

“Sherlock, buddy, come say ‘goodnight’ to your little brother one more time,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock rushed over to John, who was quickly enveloped in a tight hug and kissed sloppily on the cheek. John giggled; Sherlock rarely showed as much compassion or affection as John would have liked, so he hugged him back tightly and did not pull away until Sherlock kissed him one more time on the cheek and then returned to skipping around the room.

“I told you chocolate milk before bed was a bad idea,” Mycroft said to Uncle Greg, who John assumed would have said bad words to his Daddy if there weren’t little ears around.

“Can I have chocolate milk for breakfast?” Sherlock asked, eyes wide as he turned to Mycroft.

“Me too?” John asked, tugging on Mycroft’s shirt. He had never liked chocolate milk, and had refused it earlier that night, when Uncle Greg had offered it to him and Sherlock, but now that Sherlock seemed to like it so much, now that he saw how happy it had made Sherlock, he thought maybe he’d try it again.

Mycroft sighed and looked at Uncle Greg, this time with his eyebrows raised.

“We’ll see,” he said. “But now, it’s time for bed.”

Sherlock crossed to John and pressed the plastic dinosaur into his hand.

“He’ll keep you safe from monsters,” Sherlock said.

“That’s very nice of you, kid,” Uncle Greg said, “But let’s get some pants on that bum of yours. It’s time for bed.”

Sherlock hopped over to Uncle Greg and let him dress him in his pajama pants to cover the exposed pull-up while Mycroft led John, still clutching Sherlock’s plastic dinosaur in his fingers, back into the bedroom that had been designated his. 

“Are there monsters in the lake?” John asked once he had been settled back into bed beneath the sheets and his baby blanket. It was warm, an early summer evening, but Mycroft had told Uncle Greg earlier that a thunderstorm was on its way.

Mycroft sighed and took a seat at the end of the bed so that he was facing John, patting John’s leg where it rested beneath the sheets.

“Your brother was just teasing,” Mycroft said, and John nodded. 

“But I’m scared,” John said.

Mycroft reached up to brush hair back from John’s forehead and to smooth the baby blanket where it lay above the comforter. 

“There’s nothing to be afraid of, love,” Mycroft assured. “Uncle Greg and I are just in the next room. If anything happens, you can either come to wake us up or you can go to sleep on the cot Uncle Greg made up in Sherlock’s room, whichever you prefer. I'm proud of you for being brave enough to try to sleep in your own room, but remember there's nothing wrong with asking for help if you need it, okay?”

John shrugged but nodded. Mycroft stood from the bed and began to leave the room. John felt a rush of panic, a need to do anything to keep his Daddy from turning out the lights and leaving.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, Bunny?”

“I have to potty,” John said. He had said it before his brain had processed, and for a moment he was a bit older, wondering when the last time he had used the term ‘potty’ had been. It brought a blush to his cheeks, but it also made him feel young and helpless, and that was a good thing.

Mycroft seemed to pause, as if gauging how truthful John were being.

“You just went potty before you brushed your teeth, Bunny,” he said, hands on the lightswitch, as if ready to flip it off.

John liked when Mycroft used the word ‘potty,’ as if it were normal, as John he were young enough to still be potty training and Mycroft was the one training him. The idea pleased him.

“I have to go again,” John said, quietly. He wasn’t sure Mycroft would believe him. He wasn’t even sure he was telling the truth. He could feel a fluttery feeling in his tummy that may have been tinkle but may just have been nerves because Mycroft was about to leave him alone.

“Okay, little one,” Mycroft said. “Let’s go try one more time, hm?” and John nodded and crawled out from under the blankets and across the bed. He stepped down and hurried across the room to meet Mycroft, who guided him into the bathroom. 

Uncle Greg and John’s Daddy shared another look when they both found themselves in the bathroom once more. 

“I have to potty, Uncle Greg,” John said, liking the feel of the word in his mouth, wanting to use it more. He pressed a hand between his legs just to play the part, just to be the little boy still learning.

“Then go right ahead, Bun. Someone insisted on brushing his teeth a third time,” Uncle Greg sighed as Mycroft and John entered the bathroom and John pushed his pants and underwear to his ankles while he sat on the toilet. If he were feeling less young he would have been embarrassed to be naked in front of everyone, but instead he revelled in the way it made him feel even younger. Potty training boys couldn’t be expected to wait for the loo. 

Sherlock stood in front of the sink on a stepstool that had been in the lake house bathroom. It was painted in bright primary colors, obviously for a child, and, given Sherlock’s height, he certainly didn’t need it in order to see the mirror, but John understood why he would want to use it. It seemed they were both feeling particularly young that night.

“Mycroft, why does Bunny get to wear undies to bed?” Sherlock asked, indignant, with a mouthful of toothpaste.

Mycroft and Uncle Greg shared a look.

“Your brother doesn’t have accidents at night, ‘Lock,” Mycroft said. “Every little boy is different.”

Sherlock spat out his toothpaste and glared at John, who had managed to get a tiny trickle of urine into the toilet. John felt sad that Sherlock was angry with him; there had been plenty of other nights when Sherlock had been put to bed in a pull-up beside an underwear-clad John, but it was obvious the contrast had upset Sherlock tonight. 

“I’m bigger,” Sherlock said, turning to face Greg and Mycroft but still standing on the stepstool.

“Sometimes big brothers have accidents and sometimes little brothers have accidents,” Mycroft said. “That doesn’t change the fact that you’re Bunny’s big brother.”

Sherlock pouted, his previous frenetic energy dissipating as he stepped from the stool and walked over to press himself against Mycroft’s chest. 

“I want you to read me my story,” Sherlock said, suddenly sullen and upset.

John felt a stab of nervousness as he watched a look pass between Uncle Greg and his Daddy. John needed Mycroft to put him to bed and to keep away the monsters. He felt tears begin to fill his eyes as he thought about being left alone in the scary room. 

But Mycroft glanced toward John and, when he caught his eye, he seemed to realize how much the boy needed him.

“Uncle Greg is going to put you to bed tonight, bud, remember? We talked about this.”

Sherlock moaned and then his sadness seemed to turn to anger. He shoved himself away from Mycroft and stormed out of the room, mumbling about not needing anyone and how Mycroft was a mean brother. 

“I’ll take care of it,” Uncle Greg said when Mycroft turned to follow after Sherlock. “You look after the little one.”

Mycroft sighed, glancing down the hallway towards Sherlock’s room, but then nodded and allowed Greg to be the one to leave to find Sherlock. John watched him carefully, and Mycroft seemed to purposefully change his expression from one of sadness to one of positivity; John knew it was for his sake. 

“Can you pretty please stay with me until I fall asleep?” John asked, still sitting on the toilet with his pants down around his ankles.

Mycroft smiled at the boy and sighed; John had heard Uncle Greg earlier teasing that John’s daddy was a pushover when it came to John, and John hoped it was true that he couldn't say no to him. 

“Just for a few minutes,” Mycroft said. He helped John to stand and pulled up his underwear and pajama pants for him, then instructed John to flush the toilet and wash his hands.

“Roll over on your tummy and I’ll rub your back a bit,” Mycroft said when John was settled back into bed.

John quickly flipped over, stuffed lion beneath his arm. He reached for the pacifier Mycroft had left on the night table and popped it into his mouth. He didn't usually go to sleep with his pacifier, but tonight he thought it might help.

“Night, Daddy,” he said around a yawn.

“Goodnight, lovebug,” Mycroft said as he shifted higher up the bed and began running his hand along John’s back. “You're a good boy.”


	8. Middle of the Night Troubles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the little Sherlock some of you have been waiting for. Unfortunately he's struggling with some tough situations in this one, but all will get better for him, soon!
> 
> Let me know what you'd like to see as the weekend at the lake progresses for these guys--I definitely use ideas left in the comments in the chapters and stories. The super sweet Sandrina gave me the idea of jealous little Sherlock (thanks, Sandrina!), which happened to fit really well when I was wondering how Sherlock would find out that Mycroft has become John's Daddy. And there are many other ideas you guys have given me that are bouncing around in my mind and will be incorporated when I find the right way to do so in the course of the narrative :)
> 
> Have a great rest of your day, all--enjoy!

Sherlock had to pee. He'd woken up suddenly after dreaming of sitting in the back of a classroom in middle school, unable to leave to use the loo, and when he blinked his eyes open he immediately brought his hands between his legs, conscious of the pressure in his bladder. 

It wasn't often when he had to go this badly in the middle of the night that he woke up before his bladder released into his pull-up and bedsheets. He'd been a bedwetter basically all of his life; his body had never been particularly skilled at waking him up when he needed to go. The wettings had been much worse when he was younger, when he wet almost every other night. Mycroft had been the one he went to then, before he was old enough to change his sheets himself. He calmed Sherlock and cleaned him up, thankfully never feeling the need to tell their parents. 

Eventually the bedwetting became something that only happened a few times a year. But those nights with Mycroft taking care of him had uncovered a longing within Sherlock, and, even far into his teenage years, if Mycroft was back home from college and Sherlock woke up soaked, he would go to his big brother, hemming and hawing at the doorway as he struggled to overcome his wounded pride. A part of him said he was too old to need help with a wet bed, too old to want comfort, and so there was generally a half hour or so where he debated between simply cleaning himself up and waking up Mycroft. But, in the end, Mycroft had never been a very deep sleeper, and when he inevitably woke up to find his brother at the doorway in soiled pajamas, Sherlock let him take over, unable to resist the idea of his brother caring for him. 

Sherlock’s bedwetting had led to nights which were the earliest beginnings of their age play, nights they didn't speak of where Mycroft cleaned and comforted and cuddled his brother while Sherlock let go of his stubborn smarminess and became somehow vulnerable. They were nights Sherlock had always wanted more of, nights not fully realized until he was nineteen and Mycroft had picked him up from uni and brought him home once and for all. 

The first time Mycroft had led Sherlock into headspace, the night he was staying at Mycroft’s house while in those early stages of withdrawal from the drugs he'd been addicted to at uni, Sherlock felt more comfort than he had in years, and for the first time in a long time, he recalled the feeling of those nights from his childhood and high school years when he'd gone to Mycroft with wet pants. It was clear Mycroft remembered them as well, clear that with a bit more introspection and contemplation he had come to realize just how much they had meant for his little brother, perhaps had even come to realize how much they meant to himself. 

Sherlock sat rocking back and forth on the creaking mattress of the lake house bedroom. He knew he should get up to use the loo. After all, he had woken up in time. He could hold it long enough to make it to the bathroom without an accident. 

But he was feeling young and alone in the room, and, now that he was awake, he wasn't sure he'd be able to get back to sleep. The shadows in the room were angled and sharp like the slashing claws of monsters, and Sherlock suddenly just wanted Mycroft. Mycroft would help if he asked him, but Sherlock was angry with him; Mycroft had chosen to put John to bed instead of him. He hadn't forgiven Mycroft. Besides, he was a bigger boy than the babyish and needy Bunny; he didn't need anyone's help. 

But the wind was howling outside his window, and the rain was starting to fall, and Sherlock didn't feel very big at the moment. 

It was out of the need for comfort, the need for more of an excuse to go to his brother, and the pressing desperation of his bladder, that Sherlock began to pee the bed. Uncle Greg had put him into a clean pull-up before bed. The one he had been wearing had been wet, and Sherlock had blushed bright red because he had remembered it happening during movie night when he held it too long, convinced he could hang on until the end, but then had forgotten about it and never asked to be changed. As he began to pee, Sherlock could feel the material of the fresh goodnight soaking up his urine, bulking up as it became wet. 

But Sherlock wanted his brother’s help, wanted to return to a night like when they were children, before Bunny had come into the picture and when Sherlock really had needed Mycroft desperately. So, when he could feel the diaper filled, he did not stop peeing. In fact, he readjusted himself so that he was peeing right against the leg hole of the pull-up, and sure enough he felt the diaper begin to leak, and he was peeing into his clothes and onto the bed sheets. The warm liquid spread out beneath him in a small puddle, and, by the time his bladder was empty, his pajama pants were saturated and his sheets--forced by the plastic sheet Uncle Greg had put on the bed earlier to absorb all of the liquid--drenched from one edge of the twin mattress to the other. 

The liquid had pooled in the center of the mattress where Sherlock sat, so he could not help but make more of a mess as he got out of bed, dripping urine from the heavy pull-up as well as the thin cotton of his dinosaur pajamas. He felt just like he had when he was very young, scared to be found out and desperate for his brother to make things right. Bunny was far from his mind. 

He held his plush alligator beneath one arm and his plush dinosaur beneath the other as he ventured into the hallway and to the master bedroom. Halfway there he shifted the alligator to the same arm as his Dino in order to leave a hand free so he could suck his thumb. Mycroft had first seen Sherlock suck his thumb on a night he had gone to him to explain that his sheets were wet, and it had become part of the pattern: clean up, fresh clothes, and his thumb to comfort him while Mycroft rubbed his back.

The moon was bright in the master bedroom, the windows open to the now pattering rain. Sherlock stood in the doorway for only a moment before ascertaining which side of the bed his brother was sleeping on and taking steps towards him. But he paused. Because he could see Uncle Greg asleep on one side of the bed and Mycroft asleep on the other, but he could also see John, asleep in their bed too. John’s head was rested against Mycroft’s chest, pacifier in his mouth and hair disheveled. And Mycroft’s arm was around John, pulling the man closer, comforting him. 

Sherlock blinked at the sight and his thumb fell from his opened mouth. 

If he had been aged up, Sherlock may have been able to identify what he it was he was feeling, may have been able to process the sinking feeling in his gut and at least begin to name his emotions. As it was, little Sherlock could only know that he wanted his brother but Bunny had him just like he had had him for bedtime, and that made him feel like he wanted to cry. 

Sherlock felt alone being the only one awake and the rain and the house was scary and what if Mycroft liked Bunny better than him? Bunny was well behaved and cute and quiet, and Sherlock was a spoiled brat. It was no wonder his brother had chosen the Bunny over him. Sherlock turned to run out of the master bedroom before he woke up his brother with his sniffling. He tripped on the slight wooden lip in the doorway where the hardwood from the hallway met the carpet of the bedroom, which only made it harder to hold back his tears, but he regained his footing after a quick stumble and was quickly back in his room. He closed the door and caught his breath. 

His room was darker than the master bedroom had been, and he'd been telling John monster stories all day when the grown ups weren't paying attention and now he'd gone and scared himself. And his bed was all wet and he didn't want to change himself and what if the people who owned the lake house found out he'd peed in their bed and got mad and then Mycroft was disappointed in him? 

Sherlock cried. He didn’t want to be out in the open where the monsters could get him and where he could see the evidence of his accident in bed. He was feeling bad because he knew it hadn't really been an accident, and he was supposed to be a big kid. He needed to be somewhere safe and quiet, so after checking for monsters--a task which frightened him so badly he could feel a new trickle of urine wet his now cold and heavy pull-up--he crawled into the closet and, crying, hugged his stuffed toys to his chest. 

He would have yelled much louder when someone said his name if he hadn't had his thumb in his mouth. As it was, he hissed when, frightened, he bit down, leaving teeth marks along the knuckle. 

“Sherlock, buddy?” The voice called again. “Come out here, sweetheart.”

The voice sounded like Uncle Greg, but Sherlock wasn't sure whether to trust it. What if a monster had stolen Uncle Greg’s voice like the sea witch in the mermaid movie John liked so much? What if he opened the closet and it wasn't Uncle Greg at all?

“I'm going to sit right out here, kid,” the voice that sounded like Uncle Greg said. “And when you're ready you come on out and we’ll get you all cleaned up and nice and settled, okay?”

Sherlock blushed, unsure if he was more upset that a potential monster had noticed his wet bed or that Uncle Greg had. But, in the end, his curiosity got the best of him, and he leaned forward to peek through the crack between the closet door and the door frame. 

It certainly looked like Uncle Greg, sitting against the wall with his knees bent and his arms crossed over his knees, dressed in an old police t-shirt and thin cotton pajama pants. 

Sherlock sniffled and rubbed his eyes against his forearm.

“Uncle Greg, are you a monster?” He asked, and was glad when the man did not laugh.

“I'm not a monster, bud. Would a monster know that your stuffed dinosaur is named Dmitri after the chemist Mendeleev? Or that you like to have handstand contests when you go swimming even though the water hurts your ears? Or that your favorite meal is chicken nuggets and spaghetti with butter?”

Sherlock guessed a monster probably wouldn't know that about him unless he could read minds, and there probably weren't too many monsters who were that advanced. He shuffled closer to the closet door and slid it back a few inches, peeking out at Uncle Greg. 

“Come ‘ere, little pirate,” Uncle Greg said when he got a good look at Sherlock, who was by now a mess of tears and snot as well as urine. He held out his arms and Sherlock crawled over to him, allowing himself to be hugged, just wanting the comfort. 

“John took Mycroft,” Sherlock mumbled, fresh tears brought up as Greg rubbed his back.

“Oh, little one,” Greg sighed. He lifted Sherlock into his lap. Sherlock tried to squirm away, half-heartedly protesting because his clothes were practically dripping with pee, but Greg held him close and told him he didn't mind one bit. 

Sherlock sat in Uncle Greg’s lap and cried. He cried because he was scared of what it meant that Bunny was sleeping next to Mycroft, and because he hadn't realized that things were changing, and because he wanted things to be like they used to be, when Mycroft was all his. Greg cooed and hummed, and the vibrations of his chest as he made soothing noises were comforting against Sherlock’s ear and cheek, which were pressed up against him. 

“I think you and Mycroft should have a nice chat tomorrow, hm?” Greg asked when Sherlock had calmed a bit. “Your brother loves you more than anything, bud.”

Sherlock simply shrugged, unconvinced. 

“For now, how about a bath and then some clean ‘jammies? Does that sound nice?”

“Okay, Uncle Greg,” Sherlock said around the thumb in his mouth. He felt numb and out of sorts, not up for making any decisions. 

“Alright, up you go, bud.”

Greg stood and then lifted Sherlock into his arms. It was nice to be carried, but it made Sherlock think about how often Mycroft lifted John because he was easier to carry, and that made Sherlock sadder. He lay his head against Greg’s shoulder and suddenly just wanted to sleep.

Once they were in the bathroom, Greg helped him out of his now cold and itchy pants and then tore the sides of the wet pull-up to remove it from the consulting detective’s body. The bath was a quick affair, just in and out with a quick scrub down. Greg did wash Sherlock’s hair, Sherlock thought maybe because Uncle Greg was already washing his face free of tear streaks and maybe thought it would soothe him. Sherlock usually hard having his hair washed, but he didn't mind tonight. He didn't have the energy to put up a fight. 

Uncle Greg put Sherlock to bed in the spare cot while he began stripping the twin bed of the wet sheets. He used the dry edges of the sheet to sop up the puddle of urine pooled on the plastic mattress cover. The cot was too short for Sherlock, and his feet hung off the end. There also wasn't a mattress cover on the cot, and Sherlock worried about what would happen if he wet the bed again. Uncle Greg and Mycroft had made up the cot in case Bunny got scared in the night, the memory of which only made Sherlock think about where the Bunny was actually sleeping. He felt something more than sadness at that moment, he felt anger. Angery because Mycroft was his and because the Bunny was supposed to come sleep with him if he got scared, not with Mycroft, and because the cot didn't have a stupid babyish mattress cover on it because Bunny didn't need that like Sherlock did. Nothing seemed fair.

“I don’t like him, Uncle Greg,” Sherlock said. 

“Who, love bug?” Greg asked, pausing with the sheets balled up in his arms.

“Bunny. He’s a meanie.”

“Hon, I can understand why you're angry. Things are bound to shift when a family gets a little bigger. But I hope you don't really mean that why you say you hate your little brother. Because he loves you very much.”

Sherlock grumbled and shrugged. He did think he meant it, but he could tell Uncle Greg didn't want him to think that.

“Why is he sleeping in your bed?” Sherlock asked, sitting up, perhaps ready to begin thinking a bit more rationally about the situation. 

“For the same reason you came to our room tonight. He woke up and needed his daddy.”

Sherlock felt the breath catch in his throat. 

“His...his daddy?” He asked, sitting stiff and still.

Greg seemed to realize his mistake; worry crossed over his face and he took a seat on the end of the cot, facing Sherlock. 

"You're John's daddy?" Sherlock asked, but his throat felt tight, and he already felt he knew was Uncle Greg was going to say.

Greg shook his head. "I'm John's Uncle Greg just like I'm your Uncle Greg, kid," he said.

Sherlock felt as if he had missed something, the prickling of his adult mind berating him for not deducing the shift in Mycroft and John's relationship himself.

"Mycroft is John's daddy?" he breathed. 

“I'm sorry I spilled the beans on that one, kid,” Greg said, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Mycroft and Bunny were going to tell you, when the time was right.”

Sherlock blinked back tears. He was having a hard time processing the information. If Mycroft was John’s daddy then where did that leave him? Mycroft couldn't be Sherlock’s daddy--he would always be his big brother. Did that mean that Mycroft and John's relationship was more special than Mycroft and Sherlock's? 

“I'm tired, Uncle Greg,” Sherlock lied. He didn't want to talk anymore. He wanted to be alone, feeling his mind shifting up in age. He didn't want to cry again in front of Uncle Greg while he was aging up; he just wanted to be left alone. 

Greg sighed and patted Sherlock’s head. The man had turned away from him, and had pulled the blankets up over his eyes. 

“Get some rest, buddy,” Greg said, seeming to realize he would not be able to repair the damage he had done with any well-meaning explanations. “Things will be better in the morning.” 

Sherlock grunted non-committedly, waited for Lestrade to close the door behind him, curled up into a ball on the cot as he shoved his plush toys onto the floor. He lay with eyes wide open, knowing he would spend the rest of the night awake, adult mind back full-force, flooding his consciousness with worries and self-doubt.


	9. Hallway Posts and Damage Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, lovelies--hope you're doing well! 
> 
> This chapter was tricky to write, initially, but eventually the direction of the characters/plot started becoming clearer.  
> I'm excited to see where things move next. 
> 
> Thanks for your kudos and wonderful comments! Special shout-out to Pantera72 for reminding me of the ways John would more than likely react to Sherlock's distress, which allowed me to up the stakes for Mycroft and Greg in this chapter.
> 
> Please continue letting me know what you'd like to see/see more of in the comments!
> 
> Warnings for mentions of self-harm (no depicted self-harm)--be sure to read cautiously if this is triggering for you. Sending love!

Greg stood in the hallway outside of Sherlock’s bedroom door, head in his hand. He was disappointed in himself. He had wanted to be supportive and caring during a tough time for Sherlock; instead, he’d made things worse not only for the boy, but for Mycroft and John. 

How could he have been so careless? Mycroft had explained how important it was that they fill Sherlock in on the new dynamic between him and John at the right time, which, Mycroft explained, would likely be the next time Sherlock aged up. 

“My little brother is far from rational in any state,” Mycroft had explained. “But there’s no denying he’s most rational when adult. He won’t be able to process the revelation in any other headspace.” 

And now Greg had gone and told a weepy and vulnerable little Sherlock that his brother and John had entered into a new breed of relationship than that which he had learned--at times, not easily--to come to terms with. Greg was gutted; he had been able to read the pain on Sherlock’s face after the words had been spoken, had been able to see just how much the news had affected him. Sherlock was skilled at hiding his emotions in all of his headspaces, but he had not been able to hide the betrayal he had felt in the moment, the betrayal Greg had no doubt the lad was still feeling. The news had clearly shaken Sherlock to the core, and that was Greg’s fault. 

Through ageplay, Greg had come to understand Sherlock far better than he ever had before. He had always seen the potential in the man for goodness, and, in their Uncle Greg and little Sherlock relationship, that goodness had been confirmed. Sherlock’s bravado was a cover for his vulnerability, his gruff nature a cover for his confusion about human nature. Greg had come to see, with Mycroft and John’s help, just how much Sherlock needed to be cared for, just how much encouragement could do for the man. He felt protective of Sherlock’s state of mind, and knew that, had anyone else caused Sherlock the amount of pain he himself just had, he would not have hesitated to set the jerk straight with his fists. 

There was no taking back what he had said, though, and as much as he would have liked to stay in the bedroom to care for Sherlock, he knew the man would not have allowed his presence. Sherlock had been aging up, that much Greg could see, and he would want to be alone. 

There was a bit of relief that Sherlock was in his bedroom as an adult; Greg felt slightly less panic over not being with the boy. That said, adult Sherlock had a very specific way of dealing with emotional pain which was, perhaps, more cause for concern, and Greg knew he was in for a night of post-duty outside the door of the blue and green bedroom. It wasn’t hard to imagine that Sherlock would attempt to leave the lake house. It also wasn't hard to imagine that he may try to harm himself, and Greg was exceedingly glad that he and Mycroft had done a sweep of the house when they arrived to baby-proof each of the rooms. He could not think of anything in Sherlock's room that could be used for self-harm. 

It was also unlikely Sherlock had any known drug den contacts this far out of London, but Greg had learned not to put anything past Sherlock. He was exceedingly grateful for the no technology rule over the weekend; he had no doubt that Sherlock, had he been given access to his mobile, would have found what he was looking for in mere moments.

Greg knew there was a likelihood that Sherlock would attempt to leave the lake house even without a known destination, however. The vacation home had become synonymous with their little family lifestyle, something Greg knew Sherlock wanted nothing to do with presently. And so, ignoring the fact that various parts of his clothing--his waist and thighs from when Sherlock had sat in his lap and his hip from when he had carried Sherlock to the bathroom, and somehow one knee of his pajama pants--were wet with urine, Greg took up his post in the hallway. If there was even the smallest possibility Sherlock may need something or return to little space and want company or even the slightest chance he might try to escape, Greg needed to be there. 

So, he sat perched outside Sherlock’s door and vacillated between trying to think through and prepare himself for all of the various ways Sherlock may deal with the news that Mycroft had become John’s daddy and trying to think through all of the ways he himself could apologize to what would surely be a disappointed and frustrated boyfriend come morning. 

Not even half an hour had passed before Greg heard the bedroom door begin to open. Sherlock was standing in the opened doorway, fully dressed in his adult clothing, and Greg was scrambling to stand and face him. Sherlock had his overnight bag draped across his chest and his face was hard-set in determination. But it was clear he had not been expecting to find Greg in the hallway. 

There was a moment when the men stood blinking at each other, but then Sherlock swore, glared at Greg with an impassioned hatred, and swung the door shut, leaving Greg once again alone in the hallway. Greg was glad Sherlock had not attempted to get past him. They both knew who would have won the confrontation, and Greg knew he may have been forced to cause Sherlock discomfort had he been forced to restrain him. Sherlock had apparently decided he would rather hold his ground than lose it attempting to escape.

He knocked on the door.

“Sherlock?” He asked. “Can I come in?”

The man did not answer, but Greg heard movement in the room, and when he tried to open the doorway it opened only half an inch before coming up against what Greg assumed was the oak dresser. Sherlock must have maneuvered the dresser to serve as a barricade against anyone attempting to open the door.

“Sherlock, can we talk?” Greg asked through the crack in the doorway. He had to bite his tongue against the nicknames--bud, buddy, kid, champ--that were desperate to be spoken as a means of comfort and coddling. Sherlock is not little, Greg told himself. He needed to shift his tactics.

The only response Greg received to his suggestion was the door shoved against his face as Sherlock pushed it closed. 

What was worse, the noise from the interaction must have woken Mycroft and John, for they were soon beside Greg in the hallway, John--wide-eyed with a nervous energy most likely brought on by an abrupt wake-up and memories of Sherlock’s monster stories--on Mycroft’s hip.

“Greg, what’s he on about, then?” Mycroft asked, clearly not yet understanding the gravity of the situation. 

“Bunny, do you think you could be a big boy and go play in your room while I talk with your daddy for a moment?”

John looked nervous, but Mycroft seemed to understand that Greg didn’t want to speak in front of their youngest, and encouraged John to follow the other man’s directions. He set John down on his feet and ushered him away.

“Go use the potty and then come right back and we’ll change your pull-up. Don’t forget to wash your hands. I’ll be here if you need anything. You can leave the door open, if you’d like.”

John whined, but did as Mycroft said.

“I’m sorry, Myc,” Greg said as soon as the bunny rounded the corner into the bathroom. “I’m so fucking sorry. I screwed up.” 

“No time,” Mycroft said, immediately preparing for whatever situation lay ahead by shifting into no-nonsense crisis mode. “Explain.”

Greg nodded, a bit pained that Mycroft was speaking to him now as he did when they were working together professionally, yet understanding the need for urgency and pragmatism.

“The kid wet the bed,” Greg began, sifting through the events of the evening until he had parsed it down to only the most relevant details. “When he came to get you, he saw John asleep next to you, which upset him. I calmed him down, but I slipped up when I was getting him to sleep again. When he asked why John was in our room I told him...I told him the bunny just wanted his daddy.”

Mycroft looked at Greg with the exact look of shock and disappointment Greg had been dreading.

“I wasn’t thinking,” Greg attempted, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, Myc. I messed up. He aged up almost immediately, and he’s been in his room ever since.”

Mycroft did not address Greg’s apologies or emotional state. If anything, he became even more aloof than he had been a moment before, clinical and cold.

“Has he attempted to leave his room?” he asked.

“I sat out here in case he decided to run,” Greg explained, part of him needing to convince Mycroft he had at least taken responsibility for his mistake. “And he did try. But, when he opened the door, he saw me and decided against leaving. Now he’s barricaded himself inside.”

There was a moment of quiet that Greg worried Mycroft would break by asking him to leave the lake house altogether, a moment when Greg worried his mistake would cause a tear in their relationship too large to mend without extensive time. Greg had always known Sherlock came first. It was one of the reasons he loved Mycroft; the detached, seemingly cold-hearted man would do anything for his little brother. But he had never thought about what might happen were Mycroft to be forced to choose between him and Sherlock.

Mycroft closed his eyes and sighed, and, when he next spoke, Greg could breathe again.

“This isn’t your fault,” he said at last. “I should have spoken to Sherlock weeks ago. He deserved that.”

Greg ran a hand over Mycroft’s shoulder. After a moment, the man allowed himself to be pulled into Greg’s arms. Greg did not realize until that moment how fast his heart had been beating. At the feeling of Mycroft in his arms, the knowing that, once they got themselves out of this mess, things would be okay between himself and the man, he felt himself begin to calm. 

“What would you like me to do?” Greg asked when they pulled apart. “I can stay here and keep watch until he’s ready to come out. Or it might be possible to get in through one of the windows if I climb up onto the roof of the back porch.”

Mycroft shook his head.

“He should be allowed to take all the time he needs,” he said. “I need to be the one to wait him out. He’ll fight it, but he needs the reassurance that I’m still here for him, that my relationship with him has not altered.”

Mycroft glanced down the hallway towards the bathroom, and Greg knew what he would say next.

“I need you to take care of Bunny for me,” he said. “He needs a new pull-up, which will embarrass him, but he’ll be okay. You should be able to get him back to sleep for a few hours, which will--”

“--Mycroft.”

Greg and Mycroft turned to see John standing in the hallway behind them. The man must have been listening to their conversation from the bathroom, must have watched to parse out the situation. Despite being dressed in his bunny pajamas, the outline of a full pull-up visible beneath his pants, his manner had changed.

“Just let me get dressed, and then I’ll help in whatever way I can.”

“Bunny, you don’t need--” Mycroft began.

“--John. I’m John.”

Greg knew that Mycroft had been able to see John’s change of state the moment he had appeared in the hallway, just as Greg had. But Greg also knew just how much Mycroft worried about John’s state of mind while adult. They had spoken about John’s seemingly constant feelings of guilt, his inability to express emotion, and his unwillingness to put himself before others. Mycroft’s use of John’s little nickname had been an attempt to shift the man back down again, an attempt to settle him back into a headspace that allowed for comfort and Mycroft’s own peace of mind. 

Greg wished John had taken the opportunity to latch back onto his little headspace; there was a way in which what John could most do to help the situation would be to slip back down and stay Bunny. If John stayed adult and Mycroft could not know that John was being cared for emotionally, Mycroft would be worried about both Sherlock and John instead of primarily focusing his attention on Sherlock. 

“John,” Greg began. “We’ve got this covered. You don’t need to--”

“--I can’t be young right now,” John interrupted, gaze on Mycroft. “I shouldn’t have...I’ll...”

John seemed unable to finish his thought, but Mycroft nodded as if he understood something Greg didn't. The man was certainly better at reading John’s expressions and emotions than Greg was.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Mycroft said, in a tone of voice that hinted at caregiver but then quickly shifted back to the task at hand. “For now, go change. I need to talk to Sherlock.”

“I’ll make breakfast,” Greg said. It sounded rather pathetic, especially given that it was 3:15 in the morning, but Mycroft looked relieved. Greg had known the man would prefer to have time alone with his brother. “Yell if you need anything,” Greg said, kissing Mycroft on the cheek.

Mycroft nodded, and Greg turned to knock on John’s door.

“John, I’m going to make coffee,” he said. “Come on down when you’re ready.”

John send a muffled agreement through the doorway.

“Watch him, will you?” Mycroft asked, nodding his chin towards John’s closed bedroom door. He lowered his voice to ensure John would not be listening in. “He’ll be feeling guilty. In his mind, this is his fault. I’ll need to talk to him later. Just try to keep him talking, if you can; try to keep him out of his head as much as possible.”

“I can do that,” Greg said. “You just worry about our little pirate. I’ll bunny sit.”

He was pleased when Mycroft smiled and leaned in to kiss him. At least they were in this together for their boys.

“It'll be alright, Myc,” he said, eyes flicking to Sherlock’s closed door. “He just need to know you’re there for him.”

John emerged from his bedroom, dressed in jeans and a sweater. He nodded at Mycroft, seemingly having trouble making eye contact, before following Greg downstairs and into the kitchen, where they would wait for Mycroft’s next word.


	10. Stubborn Minds and Broken Windows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a really busy week but you've all been so patient I thought I'd give you two chapters today! 
> 
> Lots of angsty Sherlock and both mentions and depictions of self-harm in this chapter. Read with care if that is triggering for you.
> 
> Thanks so much for all your comments and kudos--they mean so much!

Sherlock sat on the carpeted floor, back pressed against the wall between the two windows of the child’s bedroom. He wanted nothing more than to be back in his own bedroom at Baker Street, where he would have been able to barricade himself in seclusion for days at a time if need be. Where he had hidden stashes of drugs. Here, he had nothing with which to entertain himself, nothing to use to distract himself from the current situation. 

He wasn’t exactly proud of it, but it had taken only minutes before he had been compelled to go through the room in search of something he could use to harm himself. Given that there was no possibility for drugs of any kind--Mycroft and Greg had both searched his bags before leaving Baker Street--it was his next-step coping mechanism. But he had known he wouldn’t find anything sharper than the plastic corner of a lego even before he had started looking. His brother and Lestrade had ensured the room was free of anything dangerous. The fact that they cared for his well being should have comforted him; instead, it sparked anger and irritation. What right did they have to stifle him and his needs, to censor him?

Mycroft, Sherlock knew, had been waiting outside the bedroom door all morning. Sherlock held his middle finger up towards the bedroom door, gaining a small semblance of comfort from the action of flipping his big brother off, even though it was out of Mycroft's sight. 

Sherlock had not realized just how dependant he was on Mycroft until John had entered his life, perhaps had not realized there was anything abnormal about their brotherly relationship until John spoke of his own lukewarm relationship with his sister and questioned why Mycroft was so protective. Sherlock had made a disparaging comment about John’s fairy-tale need to see sentimentality in all aspects of his life and shrugged it off, but he soon began to observe his brother’s actions as something to be studied. And he had come to understand through his gathered data that what he had with Mycroft was not something easily found, not something that could have existed unless it was fully grounded in Mycroft’s love for his little brother. 

When they were kids, Sherlock had idolized Mycroft. His big brother was smarter and more self-assured than anyone he had ever met, even more so than their parents and Sherlock’s teachers. Sherlock wanted to be in his older brother’s reassuring and regimented presence at all times. As they had grown up, part of Sherlock still longed to be by his brother's side. The world had always been confusing and frustrating; if Mycroft couldn’t set it right, no one could. 

But the picture-perfect memories of Sherlock’s childhood under Mycroft’s watch, the memories Sherlock knew he was reliving each time he sunk down into headspace, had been tainted and altered by the events of the night. Sherlock had often felt alone in his lifetime, so the feeling was not new, but, until that moment, he had always had Mycroft. Even when they were arguing, in fights that lasted weeks or months, Sherlock knew his brother was there, just a phone call away. He had Mycroft. 

And, until recently, he had also had John. 

Sherlock had never been in a romantic relationship with another human being, let alone with another man. John had come around and changed that before Sherlock had even known he was capable of that type of love. If he were honest with himself, he hadn’t been ready for a relationship. He wouldn’t ever have been ready had the person on the other side of the bed not been Doctor John Watson. 

He stood and paced the room, searching fruitlessly for anything destructive Mycroft and Lestrade may have overlooked in their initial sweep of the bedroom. He was filled with anger and confusion and a deep, biting hurt. Flashes of John and Mycroft lying together in the master bedroom bed began asserting themselves into Sherlock’s memories of his brother as well as his memories of his recently growing relationship with John. They morphed into other memories: Mycroft carrying John around on his hip in a way he was less likely to do with the taller, more gangly Sherlock; John pleading to be fed by Mycroft at the dinner table; John sucking his thumb while Mycroft stroked his hair and read to him. 

Sherlock groaned and, stepping across the room, punched the wall. He grabbed his hand as the pain shot through his fist, cursing and bending over with his hand pressed against his stomach. 

“Sherlock? Is everything alright?”

Mycroft was still standing outside of the bedroom door, then. Sherlock had no sense of time apart from the level of the rising sun outside his window, and he had never been very skilled at reading anything from the patterns of the natural world; his was an intellect that made great use of technological advances. He had no space in his mind for that which could easily be determined by the glance of a clock or mobile. Even so, he assumed it had been at least two or three hours since he had pushed the dresser up against the door to barricade himself inside the bedroom.

“I’d like to talk to you, Lock.” 

Mycroft again, this time attempting to display endearing qualities by using an old childhood nickname. Sherlock did not respond. Let his brother suffer. 

The pain in his hand had only calmed the burn of anger marginally. He needed something else to distract him. He needed to forget, to blur the sharp lines of self-loathing. Because what hurt more than anything else, more than the constant voice in his mind telling him that Mycroft would rather have John than Sherlock as a little and that John would rather have Mycroft than Sherlock as a caring boyfriend, was that he had brought this onto himself. 

He had been the one to let John in on ageplay. He had been the one who accepted John as another caretaker and then he had even been the one to bring John’s own need for care out into the open. He had gone and given John his nickname and thus created the cuter, less difficult than Sherlock, Bunny. He had allowed John to understand the level of comfort of which Mycroft was capable and allowed Mycroft to understand how nice it was to have an affectionate and pliable little. 

“Sherlock, I’m here,” Mycroft called through the closed and barricaded door. It had been a statement he had called through the door again and again as he waited out Sherlock, as if it were some sort of promise he were offering up on a rotating loop. 

His voice was warm, and for a moment Sherlock contemplated opening the door. Because even after everything he had learned about John and Mycroft’s betrayal, in the absence of drugs or self-harm, he still longed for the men. He longed for John’s good-natured teasing and optimistic buffoonery. He longed for Mycroft’s pragmatic gameplans and the moments when he finally relaxed and let his uptight mannerisms fall away. He longed for their looking after and their ability to calm his mind. 

He could hear muffled voices through the doorway, and then John’s voice called to Sherlock from the hallway.

“Sherlock, we’d just like to know you’re okay.”

The collective “we” in John’s phrasing was sharp and cutting. Sherlock knew he was not included in that “we,” more evidence that John and Mycroft had suddenly become a unit without room for Sherlock. 

He pressed himself hard against the dresser when John attempted to open the door. 

Sherlock was pleased with the way in which his shoulder ached as it pressed against the lip of the dresser's top. He hadn’t shown Mycroft enough affection when he was in headspace, so his brother had gone and found it in Bunny. He hadn’t been there for John as an emotional support in their relationship, so the doctor was drawn to Mycroft’s care. 

Maybe Sherlock could become a more affectionate and supportive person. He could open the door and let Mycroft hold him the way he held Bunny and show him the more child-like sadness instead of anger and simply allow himself the escape of thought. And then, when he had aged up again, he could sit with John and listen to his worries and give him his time and attention. But he knew he wouldn’t be able to uphold those actions for long, not without significant practice and effort. Those were actions synonymous with Bunny and Mycroft, not Sherlock, and Sherlock had never been able to be something he was not unless a case called for it. This was nothing like a case.

It was all too much. Sherlock left his post against the dresser and paced the room. He needed his mind to stop its furious whirling, to stop its self-deprecating commentary, its derogatory name calling. He needed the headache to stop building, needed his desire for Mycroft and John to settle. 

It was the sound of shattered glass that must have been the last straw for Mycroft and John. For, as Sherlock clutched his bleeding fist against his chest and stood on the carpet amidst the shattered fragments of the broken window, they shoved their way into the room, toppling over the dresser in their need to get to their hurt Sherlock.


	11. Bandaged Wounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all--enjoy the second chapter of the day! 
> 
> Thanks once again to Pantera72 for reminding me to keep Sherlock and John's relationship in mind throughout these events and to all of you who consistently comment with what you like and what ideas you have (MorbidMotive15, TheGriefPolice, Yvoxy, whispered, Sandrina, and dandelionlad come to mind but I know there are others of you that I'm forgetting!) A lot of you mentioned angsty Sherlock throwing temper tantrums and acting out, which will definitely be showing up in the next few chapters.
> 
> I may go back and add some transitional exposition throughout this chapter--there are a few moments that seem to me to shift too quickly from one emotion to the other, but I figured you'd all rather have something that needs a bit more work than nothing at all. Just know that I'll re-read this chapter again in the next few days and will likely edit a bit. 
> 
> Let me know what you'd like to see next! I'm also thinking about possibly just doing a few Johnlock slash one-offs that are not necessarily ageplay based but would take place in this same world (you'll have a hint of what may be featured in them if you read through to the end of this chapter), so let me know if that's something you'd be interested in.
> 
> Sending you all love!

Luckily the cuts on Sherlock’s hand and wrist from when he had punched through the window had not been deep enough to need stitches, and after a quick clean-up and a few bandages, Sherlock was no longer bleeding into his shirt. John sat back in the kitchen chair and began packing up the first aid kit they had found beneath the sink in the downstairs bathroom as Sherlock leaned back into a sullen quietude. John could not help but smile at his boyfriend’s stubborn lack of foresight when, in trying to cross his arms in a show of stubbornness, he pressed his injured hand beneath his arm and was left swearing under his breath. It was a relief to be next to Sherlock again, to have eyes on him and to see him in his sights. 

Sherlock straightened his arms by his sides and gripped the seat of his chair.

“Can we have a moment alone?” John asked, turning to Mycroft and Greg, who had been standing over the medical proceedings like a nervous set of parents while John worked. 

They all glanced to Sherlock, who gave an almost imperceptible nod which John took to mean that he was okay with the idea. 

“Sherlock, I’m sorry,” John said once Mycroft and Greg had left them alone in the kitchen. “Not telling you was…”

After a moment, Sherlock spoke up.

“A bit not good?”

When John glanced up at him, Sherlock’s eyes were still downcast, but there was a quirk of an eyebrow which displayed warmth and even humor. The pain and process of his injured hand must have sobered Sherlock up a bit, must have settled him the way self-harm had in the past. 

“Right,” John said with a bit of a smile.

They sat across from each other in silence, and John began to wish he had asked Mycroft and Greg to stay. He ran a hand along the back of his neck. John may be attuned to emotions in a way Sherlock was not, but that didn’t mean he was prepared to discuss his propensity for calling another man “Daddy” with his boyfriend. Especially not when that other man was his boyfriend’s older brother. 

“I meant to tell you sooner,” John managed at last.

“And yet, you did not.”

John sighed. How could he explain that he himself hadn’t even fully processed his relationship with Mycroft, how could he explain that he was still in the midst of understanding just why he felt so drawn to ageplay?

“I was afraid you wouldn’t like it,” John said quietly, unable to be anything except fully honest in the moment. “I was afraid you would want me to stop being your little brother.”

Sherlock remained as still as ever, but his eyes shifted up to meet John’s gaze.

“I’ve seen the way Mycroft is with you,” John continued. “I guess I just wanted that, too.” 

Sherlock was contemplating, and John kicked himself for revving Sherlock’s mind up once more. Then again, he knew Sherlock needed to process as much as John did himself. And even if Sherlock’s way of processing was far different than John’s--John, after initially thinking through the various angles of a problem, needed time to discuss and negotiate with others while Sherlock, more than anything, needed time to discuss and negotiate with himself--John needed to give Sherlock all the pieces of information necessary for the other man to analyze and scrutinize by way of evaluating. 

“But it was selfish of me, Sherlock,” John said. 

He had never meant to take Mycroft away from Sherlock, something he knew Sherlock must have accused him of in his angry inner-rants up in the bedroom that morning. John had simply grown accustomed to Mycroft’s care, desperate for it as a means of emotional comfort. But he hadn’t been thinking of the impact John’s own need would have on Sherlock, and now that he had seen the tangible evidence of his betrayal, he felt nothing but a deep, sticky guilt. 

“I wasn’t thinking,” John said, hoping his boyfriend knew that what he was really confessing was that he felt awful for not thinking of anyone except himself. 

There was still a bit of trouble in their communication skills, each man still learning how to best explain their current states to the other. One of Mycroft’s most enforced rules was that Sherlock and John needed to express their needs while in headspace, a lesson John knew he and Sherlock both needed to work on as adults as well. 

“I need us to be okay,” John said. “I need…”

More than the ageplay and Uncle Greg and even Daddy Mycroft, John needed Sherlock. He needed his roommate and his boyfriend; he needed his best friend.

Sherlock said nothing, but he nodded, and John could breathe again. He reached out and took Sherlock’s uninjured hand, glad when the other man didn’t yank away from his touch. 

“When did it start?” Sherlock asked. 

“The night Greg babysat,” John said. He could provide facts and timelines easily, felt comfortable living among practicalities, and he spoke freely. “After the serial killer in Scotland. I was, perhaps, younger than usual? Definitely more needy. And I felt uncomfortable with Greg and starting crying for Mycroft and it just sort of happened. I should have told you.”

"And it developed from there?"

John nodded. 

"Mycroft said he was okay with it, that we didn't need to discuss unless I wanted to. But he said we needed to be careful to tell you at the right time."

It was clear Sherlock was processing, mulling over John's words. After a time, he seemed to speak with less weight and seriousness.

“I suppose it was inevitable,” Sherlock said with a quirk at one corner of his lip, pulling his hand away from John’s as his tolerance for affection and touch was reached. “Given your latent father issues.”

John blinked up in surprise.

“I don’t have latent father issues,” he said, eyebrows furrowed. 

“Of course you do,” Sherlock said nonchalantly.

John rolled his eyes and stood to pull Sherlock into a hug which Sherlock stood to accept but did not reciprocate. Sherlock was not finished making his point, and the detective began speaking the moment John released him from the hug.

“You’re a military man with an inclination for violence and danger, a desperate desire to prove himself worthy at every turn, and a track record of dating emotionally distant men,” Sherlock said. “Of course you have father issues.”

“Shut up, Sherlock,” John warned. Yet there was a smirk emerging even as John rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s presumptuous deducing. This was his old Sherlock, back to teasing and self-assured statements.

“I think maybe I’ll take a step back from the ageplay for a while,” John said once Sherlock had finished gloating.

Sherlock was suddenly serious once more. 

“I don’t want you to do that,” he said.

He didn’t say anything more. John knew Sherlock had seen the good ageplay had done for John, the good it still had left to do for him. Even so, John wasn't sure he could be little without feeling guilty over his relationship with Mycroft.

"I don't want it to change things between us," John said.

Sherlock shrugged, and somehow John knew the man was unable to respond to that comment. 

“I can’t promise not to be jealous,” Sherlock explained, and John nodded. He would have been shocked if little Sherlock had behaved anyway else towards Bunny after learning what he had about Daddy Mycroft. 

“That’s alright,” John said. “I won’t mind.”

“And I can’t promise I won’t be a brat for a few days, at least.”

John smiled sideways. Leave it to Sherlock to give himself an excuse to act up. It was no surprise that Sherlock had found a way to use this to his own advantage.

“At least,” John said, nodding. 

"But you need to be little perhaps even more than I do."

John pulled Sherlock into a kiss, which the man luckily reciprocated.

“Besides,” Sherlock said after a moment. He smirked and looked down at John with mischievousness. “I wouldn’t take ageplay away from you just as you’re coming to terms with your own propensity for pissing yourself.”

John blushed beet red, and Sherlock leaned in closer to speak softly.

“Which is something you don’t need to keep exclusive to headspace, you know,” he said.

John simply gaped up at Sherlock, a question unformed in his expression that, luckily, Sherlock could decipher.

“You really think a grown man with no medical issues to speak of would show up with wet trousers as often as I do if he didn’t receive some sort of sexual gratification from the act?” Sherlock asked. “Even someone as stubborn and distracted as myself could be bothered to use the loo if he really wanted to.” 

John breathed a laugh and kissed Sherlock once more, grateful to have the man back in his arms, grateful for the way in which his guilt had settled, at least for the moment. 

“Now be a good little Bunny and hop along to Lestrade so I can talk to Mycroft,” Sherlock said with an eyebrow raised, eyes distant once more.

John had to be foolish to think that just because Sherlock had forgiven him he had forgiven Mycroft. There was a history there that colored the situation differently. 

“Sherlock, he cares for you more than anything,” John said, hoping to temper the animosity in Sherlock’s voice. 

But Sherlock stared at him, and John realized arguing on the side of Mycroft might not be the best course of action to take at the moment. Not when he had just gotten Sherlock back. He nodded an apology and turned to leave the room.

“John,” Sherlock called.

John paused and turned around to find Sherlock looking smug.

“Do your best to get young again, alright?”

John could have asked questions, but he had a sinking feeling he already knew what Sherlock was up to. It was one thing for an adult Sherlock to make Mycroft’s life miserable; the brothers generally worked themselves into a passive aggressive silence and eventually argued their differences out as soon as one of them needed the other. It was quite another thing entirely for a little Sherlock to plague Mycroft with temper tantrums, outbursts, and general disagreeableness; Mycroft could not ignore his younger brother or simply wait out Sherlock’s grudge if the man was in headspace. 

“Sherlock, are you sure--”

“Just get young, John. This is going to be fun.”


	12. Gameplans and Counterplans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, loves! Quick update of a chapter I didn't know I wanted to write until I began it! 
> 
> Your comments and kudos from the last two chapters were all so amazingly sweet and of course encouraged me to keep writing as soon as I could (which ended up being while I had some time on a bus ride). I don't have time right this moment to respond to them (I'm still traveling), but I promise I will in the next day or two!

“Sit down, love,” Greg said from his place seated on the bed in the master bedroom. 

He had taken Mycroft upstairs, insisting they give the boys their alone time to chat after the cuts on Sherlock’s hand from the broken window had been cleaned and bandaged, albeit not without complaining from a still disgruntled Sherlock.

Mycroft grunted to acknowledge Greg but did not sit down, continuing to traipse back and forth from one side of the bedroom to the other.

He was pleased Sherlock was no longer barricaded inside the bedroom down the hallway, but his nerves had returned when Greg pulled him upstairs and away from his injured brother in order to allow John and Sherlock space to chat. The pain from Sherlock’s injury had sobered him, but Mycroft had still been able to sense his brother’s pain and anger beneath the surface of calm.

“Let’s let them be,” Greg had said when Mycroft attempted to remain close to the two men. “They deserve some privacy.”

Mycroft trusted John, perhaps more so than anyone except Greg and definitely more so than he trusted his unpredictably selfish little brother. Even so, John had far less experience dealing with an emotionally volatile Sherlock Holmes than Mycroft did himself. He also worried that John had barely had time to properly transition up in headspace; only hours before he had been as deep in headspace as Mycroft had seen him. Was he really prepared to process aspects of his fully adult relationship with Sherlock? There was a part of Mycroft itching to race down the staircase and check up on the two.

“Mycroft? Greg?”

John was standing in the doorway of the master bedroom, peeking around the opened door. Mycroft paused his pacing and turned to face him, quickly assessing that the conversation must have been successful; John was far more at ease than he had been last Mycroft had left him. 

“Sherlock wants to talk to you,” he said to Mycroft, who nodded as if taking marching orders. 

Mycroft moved to leave the room, but he paused, unable to ignore the way in which John blinked up at him with something not wholly adult as he passed the smaller man.

“Everything okay?” Greg asked, obviously having noticed Mycroft’s hesitancy. 

John nodded, but turned his eyes down and did not make eye contact with Mycroft. He crossed the room and took a seat next to Greg on the end of the bed, and when Greg threw an arm across John’s shoulders and pulled him close, John did not shift away. 

Mycroft contemplated the picture the two of them made on the bed. Was it possible John was already feeling young again, that things with Sherlock had gone well enough to allow John the peace of mind he needed to slip down in headspace once more? It wouldn’t be entirely out of the question. After all, they had come to the lake house with the intention of keeping the boys young for the entire long weekend. It was only Friday morning now, and it was feasible that John, after having set things right with Sherlock, was eager to return to extended little time. 

But Mycroft was wary of this quickly-shifting mood from John. Just half an hour before, and, Mycroft assumed, just moments before while talking to Sherlock, he had been fully adult. It was abnormal for John to be settling back into his little bunny self without any of his usual hemming and hawing about age play.

“Greg, can you get the Bunny dressed for the day while I chat with Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, testing the waters of John’s headspace by suggesting that he should be dressed in something other than the jeans and sweater that were his go-tos in his everyday life.

“Sure can-do,” Greg smiled, squeezing John closer to him. “Might be nice to get outside for a bit this morning before the rain comes this afternoon, huh kid?”

John nodded, a bit too over-eager for Mycroft not to notice something off.

“Alright with you if Uncle Greg gets you dressed in some play clothes, Bun?” Mycroft asked. 

The doctor nodded again and looked down at the floorboards. John seemed to consciously not be making eye contact with Mycroft. 

“Verbal response, please,” Mycroft prompted, needing more information and time to properly read the man. 

When John glanced up at last, it was with a hint of defiance Mycroft rarely saw from John, a look more little Sherlock than little Bunny, a look which had him taken aback and told Mycroft clearly that John--and, likely, Sherlock--was up to something. 

“Okay, Daddy.”

John--yes, Mycroft was positive now that this was still a fully adult John in front of him--blushed beet red and shifted his gaze back to his feet. Greg may have been oblivious to John’s state of mind--he was still holding the man to him as if he were his little Bunny instead of his adult friend--but Mycroft knew better than to be fooled by John’s show of littleness. 

What had happened in the conversation between John and Sherlock? It was clear there had been some type of understanding reached by Sherlock and John, one that aligned the boys in a newfound type of brotherly troublemaking. John, apparently attempting to force himself into headspace and yet clearly still adult, had just called Mycroft his Daddy, something he would not have done unless there was an ulterior motive of some kind. 

The act of an adult John using such a childish endearment had the jarring effect of separating John from Mycroft, cheapening the Daddy and little boy bond the two shared by trivializing the connection they had grown to share. 

Mycroft was not proud of the fact that, rather than admit that he was hurt by John’s decision to make light of their relationship and perhaps even jealous of what Mycroft assumed was a newly formed alliance between John and Sherlock, his first instinct was to challenge John, to beat him at his own game. 

“It might be a good idea to wear pull-ups today, Bun,” Mycroft said, meeting John’s gaze firmly when the man looked up at him, wide-eyed. “After all the stress of last night.”

“I don’t…” John was breathing heavily, blinking up at Mycroft at last. He turned to glance at Greg, whose brow was furrowed as he began understanding that something was going on, and then back to Mycroft. Mycroft did not look away. 

Mycroft had provided John with few options. He could reject the pull-ups, admit that he wasn’t little, and explain to Mycroft and Greg why he was pretending to be little, or he could continue playing along and agree to wear pull-ups for the day.

They stared at each other for a moment in a type of stand-off that Mycroft hoped would show John’s true colors and bring the man back into the space that they shared as Daddy and little boy, with John compliant and sweet. But the doctor did not give up whatever game he and Sherlock were playing, and, with a sigh, he nodded his head yes. 

“Just in case,” Greg said, glancing back and forth between the two men as he seemed to now be fully aware of the tension between them. 

Mycroft nodded.

“We wouldn't want any more accidents,” he said, and felt a stab of smug pleasure when John blushed brightly and cleared his throat.

He turned, leaving John in Greg’s care abruptly. 

Pausing at the foot of the stairs, he took a moment to return to himself, needing to level his head before he began what he assumed would be a challenging conversation with his brother. He couldn’t help but feel a sense of loss. It was clear he had harmed his relationship with Sherlock. Now he seemed to have lost a part of John as well.

“My?”

Greg was halfway down the staircase when Mycroft turned. 

“They’ve planned something,” Mycroft said, voice low to keep Sherlock, around the corner in the kitchen, from overhearing. “John’s pretending to be young.”

Greg lay a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder in what Mycroft knew was an attempt to steady him.

“If that's true,” Greg said, “Then they’re testing you. Sherlock needs to know things haven't changed, that you’ll be there for him no matter what, that your relationship with the Bunny doesn't impact that. And John needs to know that he can have a relationship with you and Sherlock at the same time, without penalty in either direction.”

Mycroft sighed. It had been wrong of him to react to John with spite and passive aggression. The man may have been adult, but he had been gauging Mycroft’s response to little behavior. And Mycroft had failed at assuring John that he did not have to choose between Mycroft and Sherlock. 

“We knew Sherlock would act out,” Greg said. “You told me so yourself upstairs in the bedroom. Is it really so surprising that he would pull John into his game, or that John would feel compelled to make amends by following along?”

Mycroft sighed, then leaned over to kiss Greg. 

“You're smarter than you look sometimes,” he said.

Greg shrugged and smirked. 

“No argument there,” he said.

“Children act out for attention,” Mycroft mused. “We’ll simply have to give them all the attention they require.”

Mycroft knew now how he would deal with his kid brother and his newly recruited sidekick, Bunny. Greg was right. More than anything, Sherlock needed to know that, no matter what he did or how he acted, Mycroft would not leave him, that Mycroft would not suddenly prefer the more sweet-tempered John over him. 

Pulling John into the game had obviously been a calculated move on Sherlock’s part, one that Mycroft questioned John’s awareness of. The act had the two-fold effect of making things more difficult for Mycroft while also blemishing John’s do-gooder reputation as Sherlock spurred him on towards mischief. And if John were feeling guilty enough to attempt to force himself into headspace just for Sherlock’s sake, the man could use all the help he could get to keep from losing himself in the need to please Sherlock. 

Mycroft was calm and composed once more; he knew exactly how he needed to proceed.

“Go look after our fake little Bunny upstairs,” Mycroft told Greg. “Treat him as you would were he at his youngest. I'll handle the pirate.”


	13. Push and Pull

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, loves!
> 
> Wow, was this a difficult one to write. I'm not sure why I had such trouble with the narrative here, but it's the reason it took me so long before updating--I had to leave it alone and come back to it numerous times before I even felt like I was marginally getting across what I was hoping to. Hopefully the flow is okay, and, if not, we'll chalk it up to my busy week and try for something better in the next chapter :) 
> 
> Keep sending your ideas! And thanks a million for your comments/kudos! I appreciate you all so much, even those anonymous lurkers (I know you're out there--I used to be you!). 
> 
> Sending positive vibes to you all!

Sherlock was not ready to express his feelings about the morning’s events in any way that might be considered mature. He was hurt and confused, but for a man desperate to appear independent and self-sufficiently intelligent, those were two emotions nearly impossible to come to terms with, let alone admit to others. It had happened before: Sherlock slipping in headspace to keep from dealing with bullying from his classmates, or to keep from admitting to his own loneliness, or, the night before Mycroft had left for university, to keep from having to tell his big brother how much he would miss him. In headspace Sherlock didn’t have to uphold societal norms or behave in ways appropriate to the standards he had set for himself; if he was angry, he could act out; if he was lonely, he could ask for comfort.

And so it was no surprise that Sherlock, rather than admit to Mycroft that he felt betrayed by learning of his new role as John’s Daddy, rather than hold up his half of the adult conversation he assumed Mycroft wanted to have, had fallen stubbornly into headspace by the time Mycroft entered the kitchen. 

“Need dinosaur bandaids,” Sherlock said as soon as Mycroft was in earshot. His voice was a high-pitched whine, reserved for Sherlock’s neediest moods and prompted by his inability to process the feelings which emerged as he found himself alone in Mycroft’s presence.

Mycroft made a sound of approval and crossed to the bathroom to look for the childish cartoon band aids before taking a seat next to his regressed brother in the kitchen. Sherlock picked at the taupe-colored band aids plastered onto his injured hand. 

“I can give you fish or puppies,” Mycroft said, “We’re clean out of dinosaurs.”

“Dinosaurs,” Sherlock whined, surprised to feel himself both angered and relieved by Mycroft’s presence.

“Sorry, bud,” Mycroft said, at the table to the left of Sherlock. “Either you go with the ones you’ve got on, or you choose fish or puppies.”

Sherlock pouted but placed his hand on the table.

“Fine,” he said. “I want fish and I want puppies.”

Mycroft smirked but began switching out the band aids John had used from his medical kit for both blue and orange fish band-aids and yellow and green puppy band-aids. The man placed them in even numbers, the way Sherlock preferred, and Sherlock kicked himself for feeling comforted by how much Mycroft understood him. Now wasn’t the time to take comfort in his brother’s quiet efficiency. Mycroft had lied to him, or at least kept information from him. He’d chosen John, and if Sherlock needed to learn how to get along without Mycroft, he needed to stop looking for his brother’s care. 

“Ow,” Sherlock said when Mycroft looked closely at the deepest of the cuts despite the fact that he had not touched them. “Don’t do that.”

“Lock, I understand that you feel the need to be young right now” Mycroft said, eyes down as he carefully stripped the next band aid of its paper backing. “And it’s okay that you take some time.”

Sherlock regretted asking for the band aids. Mycroft was too close, and the kitchen was too quiet. He tried to pull his hand away, not wanting to give Mycroft the chance to initiate a conversation, but Mycroft reached out to hold his wrist firmly, placing the band aid adhesive-side up on the table before beginning to peel off the last of the non-cartoon bandaids.

Sherlock grimaced and squirmed despite the fact that Mycroft’s grip almost immediately turned to something soft and gentle. 

“You’re hurting me,” he said, accusatory.

“I need you to know that I care greatly for you,” Mycroft continued. “My relationship with John and even being Bunny's Daddy will never change that.”

“That hurts,” Sherlock lied once again, squirming in his seat and attempting to yank his hand from Mycroft's grip. His voice high-pitched and huffy. He needed Mycroft to stop talking. 

"Sorry, Lock," Mycroft said. 

Sherlock was surprised to find that he was about to cry. Mycroft's mentioned relationship with John brought to mind scenarios Sherlock had been unable to keep from shifting through his mind: images of John in Mycroft's arms late at night, of John holding Mycroft's hand, of his brother tucking John into bed. Mycroft had always been his, and now Sherlock wasn't enough for him. Twisting his neck to press his face into the crook of his elbow resting on the table, he hid the burgeoning tears from Mycroft and attempted to fight against the feelings of inadequacy. If he couldn’t physically remove himself from the situation, at least he could close himself off from it so Mycroft wouldn't see his vulnerability. Tears wouldn’t help his plan to annoy and fluster Mycroft, to prove himself stronger than his need for his brother. 

“Almost done,” Mycroft said.

He reached out to pat Sherlock’s knee, and Sherlock jerked away from his touch. He forced himself to swallow down the tears.

“Don’t,” he said, looking with vexation at his brother. “Leave me alone!” 

Mycroft met his gaze, eyes soft and understanding, but Sherlock could not let himself register his brother’s comforting presence without going to pieces. So, he stuck out his tongue and then pressed his face once more into his arm. His brother’s comfort had somehow become temporary, ready be taken away at any time. 

If Mycroft hadn’t been attempting to show Sherlock he cared, Sherlock had no doubt he would have been punished for sticking his tongue out at his brother. As it was, Mycroft had apparently decided to allow Sherlock the semblance of seclusion he received from hiding his face. He said nothing until he had placed the final bandaid.

“All set, bud,” he said, closing the boxes and gathering the discarded band aids and paper backings. Sherlock watched him from the corner of his eye not pressed against his arm.

It was when Mycroft attempted to stand and leave the room that Sherlock found himself involuntarily keening in the back of his throat. Both brothers paused, neither able to process what Sherlock’s longing, desperate sound meant. They blinked at each other for a moment.

“Lock?” Mycroft tried, and Sherlock turned to hide his face again, because this time he wasn't able to keep himself from starting to cry.

“You don’t like me, anymore,” he cried, unable to keep himself from giving into the desperate need for his brother’s reassurance. But the words were mumbled into the crook of his arm, and Mycroft could not have understood. Which was for the best, as far as Sherlock was concerned, considering the words brought a blush to his cheeks and sent him into louder, hitching cries. 

Mycroft may not have understood Sherlock’s words, but he had caught onto Sherlock’s distress, and despite Sherlock’s feeble protests, he lifted the slighter man into his lap and rubbed his back while he cried.

“I should have told you, earlier, buddy,” Mycroft said, leaning close to Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock whined to block out the sound of Mycroft’s voice, feeling the push of his indignation against the pull of his neediness. 

“I know you need time. You can take all of it that you need. But it doesn’t have to be this way. Let me help you with this.”

Mycroft raised a hand to run it through Sherlock’s hair, but Sherlock batted his hand away with an angry growling sound that surprised even Sherlock himself.

“Lock, I'm right here,” Mycroft tried.

Sherlock had had enough; he shoved himself out of Mycroft’s lap as he stood from the chair and swiped roughly at his red-rimmed eyes. It was too much to take, too much to process, and he could do nothing but sink into headspace and into the most selfish version of himself.

“Go away,” he sneered as he crossed to sit in the chair at the opposite end of the table from Mycroft. 

“Why don’t we go on up and get changed into some play clothes?” Mycroft asked, seeming to choose to ignore Sherlock’s rudeness. “I’d like to take care of you, right now.” 

There was a hesitancy in Mycroft’s voice that even little Sherlock knew had to do with guilt and a desire to placate.

“I don’t want you to,” Sherlock said, crossing his arms on the table and burrowing his face into them. “I don’t like you.” 

“Did I hear someone say he doesn’t want to play outside today?”

It was Uncle Greg, his presence bright and too loud. Sherlock peeked up as Uncle Greg entered the kitchen, the Bunny, clutching his stuffed lion to his chest and sucking on his Peter Rabbit pacifier, trailing behind him, which only served to throw Sherlock into a renewed anger. 

“I’m not playing in the stupid outside,” Sherlock said, defiant.

“Not even if it means we can go down to explore the stupid lake?” Greg said with a smirk as he crossed into the kitchen to pour himself a fresh cup of coffee. “Maybe take a few stupid samples for stupid analysis?”

Sherlock sat up a bit and breathed a bit of a laugh, choosing to give in to Uncle Greg's teasing because he was feeling his first glint of hope that the day might not be all horrible.

Uncle Greg had told Sherlock the truth. He had been there when Sherlock had needed him in the middle of the night, unlike Mycroft.

“I need help,” Sherlock said, glancing down to his bandaged hand. 

He could have easily dressed himself, but there was retribution in asking Uncle Greg for help even while he ignored and refused help from Mycroft. 

Uncle Greg nodded.

“I’m sure your brother would be happy to help,” he said, glancing across the room towards Mycroft.

“No,” Sherlock said immediately. “I want you.”

Aligning himself to Uncle Greg had the twofold benefit of allowing Sherlock some of the comfort he was desperate for while also allowing for the possibility of a jealous Mycroft. He stood from his chair and hurried to Uncle Greg’s side, where he pressed himself against the man, holding onto his ratty t-shirt to keep him close. They were too close for Sherlock's comfort, but Mycroft was watching, so he cuddled closer. 

Uncle Greg shared a look with Mycroft for a moment, and Sherlock wondered if he would refuse to help him get dressed, but Mycroft nodded, and Greg looked down at Sherlock with a sigh and a smile.

“Alright, kid,” Greg said, taking a sip of his coffee as Mycroft crossed into the kitchen and brought out boxes of cereal and Sherlock and Bunny’s plastic kids’ bowls--dinosaurs for Sherlock and The Little Mermaid for Bunny--to the kitchen table. The breakfast Greg had made very early that morning had gone cold and rubbery in the wake of Sherlock’s injury. 

“Don’t want that!” Sherlock yelled when he saw the cereal boxes in Mycroft’s arms. His loud shout had startled the Bunny, who whipped his head around and blinked up at Sherlock as he sneered towards the breakfast options with disgust.

Greg and Mycroft shared another look, and Sherlock tried to hide his smirk. 

“Let’s get you dressed in something comfy, and then we’ll talk about breakfast options, champ,” Greg said, patting Sherlock on the small of the back to prod him out of the kitchen.

With a huff, Sherlock obeyed, allowing Greg to lead him towards the stairs. But when they made it to the kitchen table, Sherlock suddenly climbed up onto his chair and held his arms out to Greg, signalling that he wanted to be carried. And as he was lifted into the Detective Inspector’s arms, he glanced over Greg’s shoulder at Mycroft, gaze pointed and unwavering. 

“Only want you, Uncle Greg,” he said, eyes locked with his brother’s. “You’re better.” 

\----

Although his adult self had come to terms with and was on the way to forgiving John for needing Mycroft to be his Daddy, Sherlock’s little self could not help but feel jealous of Bunny and frustrated with his constant presence at his heels, particularly after the babyish way he had behaved all morning. Sherlock thought he and the Bunny had agreed to be partners in crime, joined together to annoy Mycroft. Instead, his little brother had been quiet and quite young all day, mainly non-verbal as they traipsed around outside looking for frogs in the lake. Sherlock was frustrated, not only because they had not found a single frog after looking for nearly half an hour, but also because he was beginning to wonder if the Bunny was intentionally trying to show all of the ways he was a less difficult little than Sherlock. 

It was why, when Bunny walked up to him with a toad clasped in his hands, arms outstretched and a goofy grin on his face as he called out “Froggie, froggie!” over and over again, Sherlock did not join in Bunny’s celebration but knocked the smaller man’s hands away and then knocked his shoulder against John as hard as he could.

The Bunny stumbled from the force of the collision, then fell on his bum and back onto his elbows into the mud at the edge of the lake. In the process of falling, he dropped the toad, who, glad to be free, hopped quickly back into the water and out of sight.

The Bunny did not cry right away. Instead, he lay in the mud with a surprised and injured expression on his face, furiously blinking back tears.

“Idiot,” Sherlock spat, “That was a toad, not a frog.”

“Oh,” the smaller man sniffled. And then the Bunny did begin to cry, tears rolling down his cheeks which he attempted to wipe away with muddy fingers which only left streaks of dirt against his cheeks. 

“Crybaby crying for his Daddy,” Sherlock teased, emphasizing the word Daddy as if it were something disgusting and shameful. 

“I’m not a baby,” Bunny whispered. 

But Sherlock stomped off with a laugh, saying only babies had daddies, and he left his little brother in the mud. The bunny would be fine; he would no doubt be found by an overprotective and worried Mycroft.

Sherlock’s wellies squelched in the wet earth as he followed around the curve of the lake looking for frogs. He would find his own frog, a real frog that would be bigger and would croak louder than the stupid toad Bunny had found. But before he had taken more than three steps, Mycroft called out, and it seemed the boys’ playtime outside was about to be cut short.

“William Sherlock Scott,” Mycroft boomed. “Come here right now.” 

Sherlock paused but did not turn to face Mycroft. 

“No,” he said, then continued walking in the direction he had been stomping. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft demanded, now closer to the space where Bunny was scrambling to his feet. “Come here.”

Sherlock considered ignoring Mycroft’s request, considered stomping right along through the trees and bushes in search of frogs. But his brother’s voice was firm, and, as much as he wanted to cause Mycroft trouble, he also really wanted to stay outside to find frogs. If he disobeyed, there was no way Mycroft would let him stay outside to play, and he’d be stuck inside with nothing to distract him from his sudden need to analyze each look Mycroft gave to the Bunny and to categorize his brother’s tone of voice in contrasting degrees of affection when he spoke to Sherlock and the Bunny. 

Sherlock compromised: he turned to face Mycroft but simply crouched down where he stood at the edge of the lake, eyes turned toward the ground.

“I’m looking for frogs,” Sherlock said.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock chose to ignore his older brother’s warning tone and instead began combing through the mud with his fingertips. If he couldn’t find frogs at least he might be able to find interesting insect species.

“You have until the count of three, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “One.”

“I’m looking for earthworms,” Sherlock said.

“Two.”

“I didn’t do it, Mycroft.”

“Three.”

With a huff, Sherlock stood and stomped through the mud towards Mycroft and Bunny.

“I didn’t push him,” Sherlock said, fists clenched at his sides as he stopped where Mycroft was pointing. “He’s a little lying crybaby.” 

“That’s quite enough,” Mycroft said, and Sherlock smirked at the way Bunny’s trousers were dirtied with mud to keep from letting the disappointment in his brother’s voice register. “You know name calling is not allowed, Sherlock, and pushing is absolutely against the rules. You owe Bunny an apology.” 

“No I don’t,” Sherlock said. He prodded at a clump of mud he had clenched in his fist, searching through for any interesting observations to be made about the soil composition. 

“What did you just say?”

“I don’t owe him anything,” Sherlock said with a shrug. 

“Then we need to go inside for a time-out,” Mycroft said, placing a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder which the consulting detective attempted unsuccessfully to shrug off. “And, after your time-out, a nap. It’s clear the lack of sleep from last night has left you overtired.” 

Sherlock had been ready for a tantrum all morning. Uncle Greg had been able to prevent them so far--making Sherlock toast when he refused to eat the cereal Mycroft placed on the kitchen table, suggesting the compromise of Wellies and a sweatshirt when Sherlock refused to wear the jacket Mycroft held out to him before their trip outside in case the rain came earlier than forecasted--but Uncle Greg had needed to take a phone call from work, and there was no one to stop Sherlock from pitching a royal fit over the idea of being forced into time out and then forced into taking a nap if Mycroft were to force the issue.

“Keep your hand out of your mouth, Bunny,” Mycroft said when he noticed John about to suck his muddy thumb.

“I’m not a baby,” Sherlock said, loudly, teeth gritted in one final attempt to prove his own resolve stronger than his brother’s. “I won’t take a nap like the crybaby.”

“This is not up for debate, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, hand pressed firmly on Sherlock’s shoulder as he began guiding him inside. He held out his other hand towards the Bunny, who latched onto it and used his other hand to rub tears from his dirty cheeks.

Sherlock was not about to let himself be led into the humiliation of corner time and an afternoon nap. Moving sharply, he stopped walking and bent his knees in an attempt to duck out from beneath Mycroft’s grip. He managed to get his shoulder free, but Mycroft had somehow anticipated the move and used the opportunity to take Sherlock by the arm, which gave Sherlock far fewer options. He was trapped, and Mycroft was squeezing his arm in a way Sherlock knew he couldn't loosen.

Sherlock pitched a fit. He screamed and yelled and clawed at Mycroft’s hand in an attempt to free himself, even going so far as to lean over and bite the man on the wrist. Mycroft was speaking calmly yet forcefully, repeating words Sherlock didn’t bother to comprehend as he threw himself onto the ground in tears. He could still feel Mycroft’s grip around his arm, steady and unwavering, but in a moment it was gone and he instead felt himself lifted from the ground. He kicked and flailed as he realized Uncle Greg had shown up in time to wrestle him bodily into the lake house, screeching about stupid Mycroft and stupid naps and not having pushed the stupid baby Bunny. 

He screamed and flailed for longer than he thought he ever had before, kicking against the wall where he had been set into the corner and hitting at Uncle Greg and Mycroft’s hands when they attempted to steady him. He was alone, and angry, and no longer able to find the best frogs, and Mycroft liked John better than him, which he didn’t know how to deal with besides yelling and kicking and hitting. 

There was a cathartic release in the tantrum that had the initial effect of spurring him on, prodding him to expel the pent-up emotion he had been harboring all morning, and the later effect, once his body tired and his head began to ache from crying, of dropping him into an exhausted, pitiful sobbing, curled on the linoleum floor, vision blurred from tears. 

It was only after he had cried himself into a blank emptiness and sat through his time-out, only as he was being carried upstairs, wrapped in Uncle Greg’s arms, that he felt in control of himself once more, that he settled back into his body. 

“Kid,” Uncle Greg said once Sherlock had been changed into pajamas and placed into his bed Uncle Greg had continued to talk through the entire process of getting him ready for a nap despite not receiving any verbal response from Sherlock. “This is for you, in case you need it.”

He placed Sherlock’s pirate pacifier on the table next to the bed. Sherlock had the impulse to whack it onto the ground, to begin screaming once more that he was a big boy who didn’t need pacifiers or naps or pull-ups or Mycroft, but he was too exhausted to put up a fight, and he knew the words would come out in shrieks that would just hurt his head more than it already did.

“Get some rest, kid,” Uncle Greg called as he flipped off the light and pulled the door closed. “We’ll get through this.”

And then Sherlock was alone, grasping for the pacifier and burrowing under the sheets. He pressed the soother into his mouth and hugged his dinosaur to his chest, running his chin along the soft red backplates. New tear streaks formed along his cheeks as he blinked his eyes closed. 

He had been naughty, but it hadn’t made him feel better. He felt lonelier and colder than ever, curled up on the twin bed. He sighed and swiped tears from his face as he listened to the afternoon’s forecasted rain beginning to patter with a whispered sigh against the windowpanes.


	14. Giggling through the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't begin to tell you all how kind and sweet your comments are, especially because I had some reservations about the last chapter! Your encouragement definitely motivated me to get this chapter finished sooner than I anticipated.
> 
> This chapter is much longer than expected. I thought about breaking it into two chapters, but the two parts build on each other so I eventually decided to keep them as one. Hopefully it's all enjoyable! This chapter is a mix of angst and comfort/cuteness and we've got a little wetting thrown in there for fun! Thanks for those of you who have sent ideas about this story and please continue to do so--the boys have the lake house for an entire long weekend, and the narrative right now only goes through Friday afternoon, so there's lots more we can explore. 
> 
> I'll probably come back tomorrow to check for typos and any other issues I haven't caught--it's late and I need sleep or I would have given it one more read before posting, but I wanted to get it posted as a thank you for your wonderful comments!
> 
> Sending you all love and bunny kisses!

The forecasted afternoon rain began just as both boys were being settled into their respective bedrooms. Bunny lay taut with worry and distress under the polka dotted sheets as he listened to the pattering on the windowpanes, clutching his blanket and stuffed lion to his chest. 

Mycroft crossed the room to pull down the window shades, blocking the midday light despite the fact that, soon, dark clouds from the anticipated thunderstorms would block the sunlight. John had managed to stay young while Mycroft went through the naptime routines they fell into whenever Mycroft deemed the man in need of an afternoon rest--trip to the bathroom to pee, into his bedroom where he was helped out of his trousers because John preferred sleeping in just his underwear, blankets and stuffed animals gathered, pacifier placed on the nightstand beside a glass of water--but as Mycroft smoothed his blankets and bent to kiss him on the forehead, Bunny could feel himself struggling to stay young.

John had been emerging in Bunny’s mind all morning, making him feel out of sorts and anxious as his adult self attempted to push aside the Bunny in order to better process and address Sherlock’s erratic behavior. 

It seemed Mycroft sensed that he was in a conflicted state, for he paused and, instead of finishing the routine by leaning further down to place a kiss along John’s temple, stood up to his full height to eye John.

“John?” he asked.

John sighed.

“Yes,” he said, and, just like that, Bunny was gone.

There had been a moment early that morning, just after his conversation with Sherlock in the kitchen, when he had contemplated staying adult in order to help care for what was likely to be a difficult little Sherlock. His first instinct had been to go to Mycroft and Greg aged up, to discuss next best steps, and to formulate a plan for best supporting his troubled boyfriend. 

But Sherlock had asked him to get young. And although Sherlock had no qualms about asking John to pick up biscuits or to text clients or to retrieve a book he was too lazy to walk across the room to get himself, he rarely asked for what it was he actually needed, especially not while out of headspace. And because John knew this, he had long ago made it a policy to follow through on any of Sherlock’s legitimate requests. If Sherlock needed John to be young, John would do everything he could to make that happen, and he would do it as quickly as possible. 

Mycroft had taken a seat on the end of the bed. John shifted up until he was seated with his back against the headboard. It was clear Mycroft was waiting for John to initiate conversation, clear he thought it best if the man formulate his own reasons for being adult again rather than have any of Mycroft’s assumptions imposed upon him.

“Sherlock asked me to get young,” John said after a moment, eyes darting up to Mycroft and then down to the striped comforter. 

Mycroft nodded.

It had been an embarrassing challenge to put on what he knew to be a not so convincing act of littleness in Mycroft’s presence. John had by no means been young when he had shown up in the master bedroom to tell Mycroft Sherlock was ready to chat with him; aging down took time for John, far longer than it generally did for Sherlock, whom John had seen shift from adult to child in mere seconds. John had only been ageplaying for a very short time, something Mycroft often reminded him when he felt confused or upset by his time as a little, and he held more reservations. John still needed long moments--sometimes hours--to fully get himself out of the way and accept a more child-like state.

John sat up and breathed to come back to himself, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck. 

“And I tried to be young,” he said

He had been able to sink down into a semblance of headspace while Uncle Greg dressed him for the day, mainly because Greg had been exceedingly gentle and encouraging, as if he had known--or, more likely, had been told by Mycroft--that John needed coddling to stop the anxious worrying swarming his mind. Worry had plagued him since he and Mycroft had been woken up and confronted with Sherlock’s discovery of their relationship, and although it had been quelled slightly by his conversation with Sherlock, there had been the new worry that he wouldn’t live up to Sherlock’s request to be little, that he wouldn’t be able to navigate littlespace after his Daddy relationship with Mycroft had been exposed. 

He had been distracted enough in the newness of their trip down to the shore of the lake that he’d at last felt himself fully in headspace. And so he had reacted to Sherlock’s anger and pushing as Bunny, had wanted Mycroft’s comfort in the aftermath of falling in the mud and losing the frog he had found as only Bunny could want it. But although Mycroft bundled him up in warm clothes after stripping him of the muddy ones and hugged him to his chest, the sounds of Sherlock’s shrieks had reverberated throughout the lake house; it had been impossible for Bunny to ignore Sherlock’s distress, and thus it had been impossible for his adult worries about his boyfriend to stay hidden. Bunny had shifted away from Mycroft to hide the fact that he was suddenly not as young as before. Also unlike Sherlock, who generally took long stretches of time to come out of headspace, John could be brought out of headspace in a mere moment. The transition that afternoon hadn’t been immediate, but he had been struggling against it ever since Sherlock’s tantrum.

Alone with Mycroft in the bedroom that was his for the weekend, John was relieved to no longer have to so closely guard against adulthood. It seemed there was a silver lining to him and Sherlock being placed in separate rooms.

“He’s not doing well,” John said, needing to process his concern for his boyfriend, imagining him fitfully tossing and turning in the room across the hall.

“He’s doing fine,” Mycroft said. “The tantrum settled him, allowed him to express the frustration he’s been avoiding.”

John opened his mouth to contradict, but then paused, noticing Mycroft’s mind had shifted somewhere else. The taller man sat up straighter and straightened the cuffs of his button-up shirt, a nervous habit which was one of Mycroft’s only tells of insecurity.

“I want to apologize for the way I behaved earlier today, John,” he said, “I knew you were not fully young, and I took advantage because I sensed you must be attempting to align yourself with Sherlock. It was childish of me to act out by attempting to make you feel lesser.”

John couldn’t help but clear his throat in the nervous silence which followed as he attempted to formulate a response. He had been embarrassed by the exchange with Mycroft earlier that day but moreso by his own awkward attempts to put on an act of babyishness. 

“It’s fine, Mycroft,” he said at last, unable to put into words the vast array of emotions he was feeling.

Mycroft waited until John made eye contact once more.

“I fear I’ve damaged something between us,” he said, and John shook his head.

“You haven’t damaged anything,” John said. “No one’s perfect, Mycroft, not even you.”

John softened his face to let Mycroft know he harbored no hard feelings, and the man smiled slightly until a thought seemed to cross his mind and his face stilled once more.

“You’ve called me nothing but ‘Mycroft’ all day,” he said, shifting back into confident caretaker. “Do we need to discuss?”

John sighed again. He had been able to sense Mycroft and Greg watching him throughout the day, tracking his behavior in the same way they were tracking Sherlock’s. It had been disconcerting, particularly because John did not want them to worry about him when Sherlock was feeling so out of sorts. But he hadn’t exactly been able to tell them off without aging up, and it wasn’t surprising that Mycroft had noticed the lack of his usual endearment for the man. John had consciously not used it, even when the two were alone.

“I wanted to call you...you know,” John said, suddenly unable to use the term Daddy while they were both adult. “But, whenever I started to say it, it reminded me of Sherlock. And he was in so much pain all day.”

“Go on,” Mycroft said, clearly taking in the information but primarily allowing John the space to process his own thoughts.

“I should have told him earlier, Mycroft,” he said. “He had a right to know.”

“And?”

John was frustrated by Mycroft’s prompting. Whether from lack of sleep or from emotional struggle, John glared up at Mycroft in a warning. He was not young, he wasn’t pliable or impressionable, and whatever it was Mycroft was hoping to get him to admit to--that he was afraid Mycroft couldn’t be his Daddy anymore? That he worried he’d changed things between himself and Sherlock, or Mycroft and Sherlock, forever? That he’d needed his Daddy more than anything all day and hadn’t been able to ask for him?-- wasn’t going to be spoken aloud no matter how much Mycroft prompted.

“John, please listen to me,” Mycroft said in the voice he used when at his most sincere. “You have not done anything wrong. It was my decision not to tell Sherlock about the development in our relationship until I deemed him ready.”

“I do have a mind of my own as an adult, Mycroft,” John said, resentful that Mycroft seemed to have conveniently forgotten that fact. “He’s my best friend. He deserved honesty.”

“My little brother very rarely dwells in honesty,” Mycroft said, a pithy quip he couldn’t help but speak aloud with a quirked eyebrow. 

John set his face as he stared at Mycroft. It was sometimes easy to forget that Mycroft could be just as smug about his own innovations of thought as Sherlock. The man seemed to sense the judgment in John’s gaze, and set his tone of voice back to sincerity. 

“You can’t fault yourself for your decision to keep him from pain,” Mycroft said. “You were protecting him.” 

John resented Mycroft’s attempt to turn John’s betrayal into something admirable. He hadn’t been protecting Sherlock; he’d been protecting himself, protecting the little Bunny within who was desperate for attention. 

“I need some time,” John said.

It was his way of asking Mycroft to leave the bedroom. He needed space to think, maybe even the space to sleep for an hour or so as an escape from the guilt pressing onto his chest. 

“Get some rest,” Mycroft said as he closed the door to the bedroom. “I’ll be just downstairs if you need anything.” 

It was the type of phrase which, coming from Mycroft and coupled with the fact that the man had gotten fewer than five hours of sleep the night before, had the effect of settling John just enough into the pretense of headspace to calm his harried mind and allow him to shift into sleep.

\---

Bunny woke with a gasp from a violent, chaotic nightmare, feeling vulnerable and needy. 

The feeling was strange given that John had never woken up in headspace when he had gone to sleep as an adult. The nightmare must have sunk him down. He could still feel stabs of fear as flashes of warfare replayed in his mind. He reached up to wipe the tears from his eyes and grasped blindly for his pacifier. 

Ageplay had done wonders for John’s anxiety brought on by his PTSD, something he had come to see during sessions with his therapist where she prodded for changes in his life in an attempt to find causation for his less apprehensive mindset. He shrugged and told her he was doing nothing differently, not ready to express to her that he was coloring in princess coloring books and calling another man “Daddy,” but it had not been hard to realize the connection. John may have come a long way since he had begun therapy, but he was, first and foremost, a private person. 

Unfortunately, John’s nightmares were unpredictable, and not even pacifiers and pull-ups had been able to lessen their frequency. 

Bunny whimpered when a loud clap of thunder and the howling of the wind added to the fearful reverberations of a nightmare even too intense for adults. What had been only light rain when the boys had fallen asleep had become a thunderstorm, one close-by judging by the sound of the thunder and the short gaps of time between booms and lightning. Bunny was frightened.  
He could call for Daddy or Uncle Greg, but they were downstairs, and his voice might not carry over the storm. Besides, they would coddle and worry and give him too much attention that would embarrass him. Mycroft and Uncle Greg didn’t know the best way to help him with his nightmares because they weren’t usually the ones close-by when they happened. 

Bunny needed his big brother. 

Sherlock had always been there, in the bed they shared as both littles and, although not every night, as adults. If they were sharing a bed when John had a nightmare, Sherlock was always already sitting up and focused when John came awake shivering and, sometimes, screaming. And whether they were big or little, Sherlock knew just how to settle John’s mind and get Bunny back to sleep. 

He gathered his comfort items and hurried across the hallway to peek through the crack in Sherlock’s bedroom door. The room was darkened by the lowered blinds and the storm, but Bunny could see Sherlock sprawled out beneath the sheet, on his stomach, arm tucked close to his side, hugging Dimitri the dinosaur close. 

He worried that Sherlock was still mad at him, that he really did think Bunny was just a stupid baby who wasn’t good for anything. But thunder clapped again and Bunny was desperate for the way Sherlock lessened fearful situations by explaining the scientific logic behind them. He would talk about repressed memory or cumulonimbus clouds and lift from various airstreams, and suddenly his nightmares and the thunderstorm would be something wonderful instead of something terrifying. 

“Sherlock?” 

Sherlock woke up with a start and almost immediately yanked the pirate pacifier from his mouth. The sheet had been pulled halfway over his face, but Bunny had seen the red plastic bobble in his mouth before he had taken it out and shoved it beneath his pillow. 

“What do you want?” Sherlock asked when his eyes found the Bunny’s cowering form in the doorway.

It was clear Sherlock was still grouchy and sore from being put down to nap, but Bunny wanted his big brother.

“I’m scared,” he said, “I don’t like it in that room alone. Can I sleep in here?”

Sherlock looked as if he would refuse, looked as if he were ready to send his little brother back to his room alone to punish him for any number of the things Sherlock currently had to hold against Bunny.

“Please?” the Bunny breathed, blinking back what he knew Sherlock would see as pathetic tears. 

“You really are a baby,” Sherlock said, but he threw back a corner of the blankets and shifted over to make room for Bunny on the bed. Bunny was grateful that thunderstorms, despite being easily scientifically explained, weren’t exactly little Sherlock’s favorite thing, either.

“Not a baby,” Bunny whispered, barely audible around the nipple of his own pacifier as he scampered into Sherlock’s room.

He crossed the room hurriedly, bunny blanket and Ariel the lion clutched in his arms. Lightning flashed as he was climbing under the sheets, and he jumped, then burrowed close to Sherlock in anticipation of the thunder.

“Scaredy-cat,” Sherlock namecalled, but he did not shift away when Bunny leaned up against him or try to pretend he hadn’t been scared, too, when the next clap of thunder caused them both to gasp.

“Did you have a nightmare?” Sherlock asked, and Bunny nodded against him.

“Sherlock?” Bunny whispered.

“Yeah?”

“Tell me about the storm?”

Sherlock shrugged and began listing the way in which that morning’s weather had held all the appropriate conditions for a storm. He gave facts and statistics regarding the potentiality of storms in summer months and explained that lightning led to thunder, which was really nothing more than air expansion.

Bunny took the pacifier from his mouth and let it drop onto the bed next to him.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock paused in his discussion of sound reverberation off of low cloud formations.

“Yeah?”

"Did you stop liking me?" Bunny asked. 

Sherlock blinked down at the Bunny, who was still pressed against his chest, then huffed and turned away from him, pulling the sheet up and over his head. It was as if Sherlock had forgotten he was supposed to be angry until Bunny had reminded him of the fact. 

Bunny could not help but feel tears building. He shouldn’t have said anything. He’d wrecked everything again. 

But instead of letting himself cry, he ducked down under the sheet, joining Sherlock in the warm darkness. The air in the bedroom was humid from the building moisture all morning, but Sherlock seemed to not mind or to stubbornly ignore the sheen of sweat across his body. They would be cool soon enough; the rain had brought a chiller breeze, and the bedroom was already shifting in temperature as the storm grew. 

Bunny reached out and placed a hand on Sherlock’s back, then traced his fingers along Sherlock’s bony spine in an attempt to soothe him. He drew stars and thunderclouds with his finger along Sherlock’s back, relieved when Sherlock did not tell him off or pull farther away. 

John and Sherlock had never had been in a fight like this while they were little. Sherlock teased and made fun and they bickered about whose turn it was to play with a toy, but it had always been Sherlock who instigated and caused trouble, Sherlock whose actions needed to be accounted for. Bunny was the one who had practice forgiving freely. Now, he was in the unfamiliar position of needing to be forgiven, and it felt lonely waiting for Sherlock to come around and stop being angry. 

He traced the words ‘I’m sorry’ onto Sherlock’s back, just above his shoulder blade. 

“You were supposed to be on my side,” Sherlock said at last, his back still to the bunny.

Bunny scooted closer and laid his cheek against Sherlock’s spine in an apology.

“I couldn’t make trouble and stay little,” he said, hoping Sherlock would understand and squeezing his eyes shut against the John-like flashes of overthinking attempting to crowd his mind even then. “I had to just think about staying little.” 

Sherlock turned onto his other side, shifting so he was now facing Bunny.

“It didn’t work, anyway,” Sherlock said, his admission of a failed plan as much of a ‘you’re forgiven’ as Bunny was likely to get. “I was naughty but nothing changed.”

Bunny tried to tell Sherlock he was sorry he wasn’t naughty too, but he was caught up in a yawn and only managed the roughest form of the words. Sherlock smirked. 

“You sound like a whale,” he said, teasing disguised as judgement in his voice. 

Bunny rubbed at his eyes and smiled at his big brother. If Sherlock was teasing again instead of outright name calling and shoving, maybe things would be okay.

“Tell me about whales,” he said, eyes closed, hand absently stroking the nose of Sherlock’s alligator stuffed animal and head now pressed against Sherlock’s chest.

“Whales are placental marine mammals,” Sherlock began. 

He was not holding Bunny close or rubbing his back or stroking his hair the way Mycroft would have, but the sound of his voice rumbling in his chest against Bunny’s ear and the familiar comfort of their routine of sleeping next to each other was comforting. 

As Sherlock prattled on about the Blue whale--Phylum: Chordata, Class: Mammalia, Order: Cetacea--Bunny tried not to shift too much on the bed. He yawned, ready to fall asleep in the familiar comfort of Sherlock’s shared space. But there was a pressure low in his tummy, distracting him. 

“Sherlock?”

“Yeah?”

“I have to go,” he said.

Sherlock pulled back a bit, shifting Bunny off of his chest, and looked him over, his eyes scanning over his wiggling frame. Bunny fished his pacifier out from where it had been tangled in the sheets and put it back into his mouth.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

The Bunny whimpered and brought his knees up to his chest. He couldn’t help but place one of his hands between his legs to press.

“I have to go potty,” Bunny whispered around the pacifier. 

It had been bad since Sherlock was talking about the thunderstorms. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold it. 

Sherlock nodded. Bunny felt very young, and that much must have been clear to Sherlock. Between the thunderstorm and the emotional turmoil of the morning and the fact that he was, at least for this moment, able to relax in Sherlock’s presence, he had sunk into a comfortable littleness that, for the first time since they were looking for frogs outside, was not overly plagued by jarring moments of adult thought. 

He let the pressure in his bladder guide him deeper into headspace. If Bunny was younger, if he was little enough to be squirming around desperate for the loo, maybe Sherlock would feel welcome to sink a bit younger as well. A part of him must have observed Sherlock had been hovering around a disgruntled 8 or 9 all day; generally when Sherlock sunk lower, closer to 5, he was less self-loathing, less averse to the comfort even Bunny could see he had been so desperately wanting all day. 

“Can you hold it?” Sherlock asked, and Bunny shrugged.

He was wearing underwear. If he wet there would be no hiding it. But he was comfortable and safe from the thunder beneath the sheets, and if he left Sherlock’s presence there was no telling the mood he might find Sherlock in when he returned.

When he’d woken up the night before alone and afraid, and had gone to Mycroft with red cheeks as he shook him awake and asked him if he could wear a pull-up. Mycroft had seemed to understand that Bunny had just needed the comfort they brought; after all, John had admitted he liked wearing them, that he took comfort in wetting himself. It was only after he had been changed into a pull-up and tucked back into his bed in the purple bedroom and Mycroft was kissing his forehead that he realized he may not have gone to Mycroft simply for a pull-up, and after much hemming and hawing he had asked Mycroft if he could sleep in the bed with him and Uncle Greg. 

John’s wiggling got more frantic as time went on, and with one big clap of thunder, he yelped and began peeing his pants.

Bunny said nothing, seemingly paralyzed by the blooming wetness in the crotch of his underwear. He squeezed the hand between his legs he had been holding himself with, but otherwise he remained as still as possible, somehow young enough to think that if he didn’t move a muscle, Sherlock wouldn’t notice. 

But Sherlock was watching. Even beneath the sheets the room was filled with enough afternoon light that Bunny could see the interest on his face. 

The wet heat spread through Bunny’s underwear and ran off his thighs, where it collected between his legs on the bed sheets. Bunny lay still in bed and peed his pants until his bladder was empty. 

“Sherlock?” Bunny whispered after a moment, removing the pacifier he had been worrying between his lips.

“Yeah?” Sherlock asked.

Bunny leaned forward and spoke softly, right into Sherlock’s ear, as if he were telling a secret.

“I had a little accident,” he said, as if the evidence weren’t spreading across the plastic sheet towards Sherlock as he spoke.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Sherlock said, smirking, glancing down to asses the puddle.

It was Sherlock who giggled first, snorting in amusement. Bunny was nervous, scared Sherlock was making fun, but Sherlock’s eyes were warm, and when he realized the man was simply entertained by the ridiculousness of the situation and Bunny’s classification of the soaked bed as a ‘little accident,’ he found that he couldn’t help but catch onto Sherlock’s silliness. Releasing the breath he had been holding, John giggled with Sherlock.

“You just wet my bed,” Sherlock said, mirth bright in his eyes and in his flushed cheeks. 

And because they were overtired or because they had simply been waiting for a reason to let the tension and stress of the morning go, the boys, after a moment of stillness, broke into joint peals of contagious laughter, suddenly overcome with breathless joy as expressed by infectious cackling.

“I couldn’t hold it,” John said between laughs.

“You didn’t have to pee your pants to get me to like you again,” Sherlock nearly squealed, body wracked with laughter.

They fell into each other as they clutched their stomachs, overcome by the hilarity of the situation and unable to breathe from the intensity of their laughing fit. After long minutes caught up in laughter, they lay back snickering until they were breathing shallowly, catching their breath and moaning with the pain of their sore stomach muscles. 

John glanced at Sherlock in the aftermath of their laughing fit, able to breathe for a moment, but when Sherlock looked at him with wide eyes and a goofy expression, his nostrils flared and he once again found himself succumbing to a deep, guttural laughter. Sherlock was set off again as well, and when he laughed so hard that he snorted, John felt tears streaming down his face. Sherlock noticed and joined him in silent, deep-bellied laughter. 

At long last, they were tired out, and lay against each other with hitching breaths. Th thunderstorm had begun to decrease in intensity around them. Sherlock knocked his shoulder against John’s with what John knew passed for affection in Sherlock’s book. 

And because they were no longer young, because they needed each other in that moment for a different type of comfort, John’s lips were on Sherlock’s and Sherlock’s hand had found its way onto John’s inner thigh.

“You realize I’m all wet,now, too.” Sherlock said when they had pulled apart from kissing to catch their breath. The urine had spread across the bed to Sherlock, plastic sheet doing its job by not allowing any of the liquid to be soaked into the mattress. “What are we going to do with you?” 

John shrugged and caught Sherlock’s eye with a mischievous smirk.

“I might need to be punished,” he said, and this time a grinning Sherlock initiated the kissing.

John cupped Sherlock’s cheek as they kissed, pulling the man closer to him by the angular jawline and reveling in the taste of his boyfriend. It had been quite some time since they had made out like undersexed teenagers, and there was a joyful pleasure in simply being together as the rain pounded around them. But John was back to being John, and as much as he knew they could waste long moments in each other’s arms, there was a nagging in the back of his mind telling him they couldn’t squander the time Sherlock was fully adult. John gently pulled away from the taller man.

“I assume here is where you advise I go talk to Mycroft,” Sherlock said. 

John was grateful that he hadn’t needed to say it aloud, that Sherlock had not made him be the one to suggest something so potentially taxing. Sherlock, whether having realized himself what should happen next or having deduced what was on John’s mind, had come to the conclusion himself.

“Want me to come with you?” John asked, and it took a raised eyebrow from Sherlock for John to realize how much that would derail a Holmes brothers conversation, given the current state of his briefs.

Sherlock sighed and sat up until he was leaning against the headboard. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier,” John said.

“Stop apologizing and get me a clean pair of pajama pants from that drawer,” Sherlock said, nodding towards the dresser against the far wall. It was the same dresser he had used to barricade himself inside the bedroom earlier that day.

When he stood from the bed, John had to use the dry corners of the bed sheet to wipe urine from his legs, not wanting to drip across the floorboards. He found a pair of Sherlock’s more adult pajama pants--a thin blue cotton, and brought them to Sherlock as the man stripped out of his sopping wet clothes before using the remaining dry sections of the sheet to clean himself off.

"You might need these more than me," Sherlock said, stepping out of the pull-up he had been wearing. 

John sent a half-hearted glare Sherlock's way and dodged the unused pull-up when he tossed it towards him. Sherlock ignored John's eye roll and simply smiled cheekily as he stepped around John to leave the room. 

John turned to the bed and began stripping it of the soiled linens. He threw the pillows to the ground to keep them from getting wet, then began balling up the wet sheets, from time to time running a hand along his inner thigh where the dried urine had begun to irritate and itch. He should probably change out of his soaking wet briefs and find a shower. 

“John?”

Sherlock was paused in the doorway, his back to John. John hadn't realized he was still in the room.

“Sherlock?” he asked, suddenly dreading what his boyfriend had obviously been building up to saying. Had he not forgiven John after all? Was he disgusted that John had basically chosen to lie in bed and wet himself? Was he going to refuse to speak to Mycroft and return to being angry at Bunny? 

“I’ll never stop liking you,” Sherlock said after a moment, stilling the worries in John's mind by addressing the question Bunny had first asked when burrowing against Sherlock to stave off the fear of the storm. “I’m quite fond of you.”

John was glad Sherlock’s back was still turned to him, for he knew Sherlock would be embarrassed by and would subsequently tease John for the affectionate grin spreading across his face.

“I love you too, Sherlock,” he said.


	15. Big Brother Cuddles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, lovelies! It's been far too long since I've updated. I apologize for the delay! 
> 
> Below is a quick chapter that finally gives the beginnings of resolution to the angst our boy Sherlock has been feeling! 
> 
> I'll do my best to get the next chapter posted very soon because I've left you all waiting far too long for this one. I've already started writing it, and I'm excited to see where it will go. Sending you all love and hoping you're having less crazy weeks than me!

Mycroft and Greg were downstairs in the kitchen of the lake house. They were completing a jigsaw puzzle, and Sherlock had to bite his tongue against the little old lady quips he was tempted to make. 

It was Greg who noticed him first, glancing up from his corner of the puzzle on the far side of the kitchen table when Sherlock entered the room. Mycroft noticed Greg’s shift in attention and turned around in his chair to face his brother. Both men were clearly contemplating Sherlock, gauging his current state of mind. Sherlock, now adult, could not help but feel a bit embarrassed by his earlier behavior--tantrums and all. 

“John wet my bed,” he said by way of deflecting the curious gazes away from himself. “I’m sure he could use some help cleaning up, Greg.”

Lestrade nodded and pushed back his chair to stand from the table. He paused and turned when he was halfway out of the room. 

“You two talk rationally,” he said before leaving them alone. He caught Mycroft's eye and a look that Sherlock could not decipher passed between them. It was clear the men had spoken about Mycroft and Sherlock's impending conversation prior to the present moments.

From the basic outline and partially completed sections, the puzzle seemed to be a photograph of an Italian city.

“I didn’t realize you two had become such old biddies,” Sherlock said to break the tension once he was alone with Mycroft, unable to keep from teasing about their choice of rainy day activity. 

“Well, our boys are all grown up, now, brother mine,” Mycroft drawled, eyebrow raised in cheekiness. “Although the stories we tell about their antics do get some strange looks from the ladies at the bridge club.”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow in turn and collapsed into the kitchen chair at the head of the table. He picked up a puzzle piece and began half-heartedly attempting to place it in the correct spot. 

“You know, each time you double the number of pieces in a jigsaw puzzle you quadruple the difficulty level?” He asked, slouched in his chair.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said. 

Sherlock found the puzzle piece’s rightful spot and fit it into the partially-completed puzzle with a satisfied hum. He could feel Mycroft's eyes on him. His brother had been sitting still in his chair, waiting for Sherlock to focus on the matter at hand.

“John thinks we should talk,” Sherlock said.

But he found himself unable to begin the conversation he knew needed to be had. Was he supposed to apologize for his behavior in headspace earlier that day? Should he explain that he and John had talked, that they were once and for all okay? Did Mycroft expect him to be completely okay with the Daddy and little boy relationship he had formed with John? Sherlock picked at the edge of one of the children’s band-aids on his hand.

"Do you remember when we were kids and you went to science camp for the summer and, when you came back, you had a pen pal from Australia?" Sherlock asked. "Some science nerd you'd grown attached to during the weeks you were pretending to be enthused by examining astrological patterns?"

Mycroft furrowed his brow, but nodded.

"That insufferable camp and their perfectly portioned meals on compartment trays," he said, disparagingly.

Mycroft had hated the science sleep-away camp--something his parents had forced him into in the hopes he would socialize with children his own age with shared interests. They had bribed him with the promise that they would write him a note to get him out of gym class come the beginning of the fall term should he attend the camp. 

Mycroft had agreed. He was packed up and shipped off, and Sherlock was left at home, alone.

"You talked about the Australian boy all fall," Sherlock said. "You wrote to him at night." 

It went unspoken that Mycroft chose to write to his new friend instead of spending time with Sherlock, instead of tucking him in as had been the custom before Mycroft had gone away. Things had changed after that summer. Mycroft began explaining to Sherlock that he needed to take care of himself a bit more, that it wasn't normal for seven year olds to need stories before bedtime or help brushing their teeth. 

“I’d like to apologize, Sherlock,” Mycroft said after a time of silence. 

Sherlock glanced up. If there was one thing his brother refused to do, it was apologize, especially when doing so implicated Mycroft in any type of wrongdoing. But it was clear from his tone of voice and the expression on his face that Mycroft was sincere.

“I should have told you earlier that John and I had entered into a new dynamic,” Mycroft explained, hands folded on the kitchen table over yellow and blue pieces of jigsaw puzzle. “I was the one who convinced John the timing wasn’t right to inform you, despite John’s--and Greg’s, for what it’s worth--better judgment. I understand how jarring it must have been for you to have learned of the relationship in the way that you did. I’d like to make it up to you, and I can start by honestly answering any questions you may have.” 

Sherlock blinked up at his brother and sighed. There was a part of him still desperate to express his distress to his brother, a part of him ready to pout until Mycroft took him in his lap to comfort him. But John was expecting him to hold an adult conversation with Mycroft. If John were there, he would encourage him to talk with Mycroft about his feelings of betrayal. He would tell him he should explain to Mycroft his fears of being left out. He would prod him to apologize for aligning himself with Greg just to make Mycroft jealous.

But John was not there, and all Sherlock could manage was a mumbled, “Do you like him better than me?” as he fiddled with a spare puzzle piece, the same question he had never asked all those years ago, about the Australian pen pal. 

When Sherlock glanced up at his brother, Mycroft looked pained, as if Sherlock’s question had confirmed fears had had been harboring about Sherlock’s uneasiness. But he quickly recovered, taking Sherlock’s bandaged hand in his own.

“Of course not, bud,” Mycroft said, voice gentle. “My relationship with you is the most important thing in the world to me. Always has been.” 

Sherlock shifted to the edge of his chair in order to rest his head against Mycroft’s extended forearm. He was desperate for his brother’s affection after rejecting it for the entire morning, desperate to return to the solid, reliable love of big brother.

“Come here, kid,” Mycroft said, an endearment he had picked up from Lestrade. Sherlock allowed himself to be pulled out of his chair and into his brother’s lap. 

He sat sideways, cuddling into his brother, closing his eyes as he rested his head on Mycroft’s chest.

“Do you think we could start this over from the beginning?” Mycroft asked, speaking softly, his chin resting atop Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock nodded, settling down into headspace in the warmth and safety of his brother’s comfort. 

“Sherlock, bud, how would you feel if I were Bunny’s Daddy?” Mycroft asked.

They both knew it was a farce, that mistakes had already been made and feelings had already been hurt, but pretending they could rewind situations and try them out in a new way had just the right echo of experimental test groups, and Sherlock found himself glad for the do-over.

“No, thank you,” Sherlock said in his politest version of little Sherlock.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, in a warning voice. Apparently there was a limit to his brother’s patience, even in a do-over situation. Mycroft may have been rewinding to fix the circumstances surrounding Sherlock learning of the new Bunny and Mycroft dynamic, but Sherlock was also expected to re-do his reaction to the telling. 

“You’re mine,” Sherlock said, voice little more than a mumbled whisper. He knew it wasn’t the right thing to say, that Mycroft didn’t like when he was selfish. He was supposed to share with Bunny, even when it was hard. But it was all he could do to keep from crying.

Mycroft nodded, then guided Sherlock to rearrange himself so he could look him in the eye. Sherlock shifted until he was straddling Mycroft’s lap, his back leaning against the edge of the kitchen table. He peeked up at Mycroft through watery eyes and was relieved to see his brother looking at him not with disappointment for Sherlock’s admission of selfishness, but with something more resembling care and compassion.

“I’ll always be yours, bud,” Mycroft said. “Being Bunny’s Daddy doesn’t change that.”

“But you’re not my Daddy,” Sherlock said, biting the edge of his thumb. “You’re just my big brother.”

“And I love being your big brother. It’s very special to me.”

Sherlock leaned forward to lay his head on Mycroft’s shoulder. He took his thumb into his mouth, and was grateful when Mycroft did not tell him to take it out when he started to suck, sensing that Sherlock needed the comfort at the moment.

Mycroft continued speaking.

“Bunny needs me to be his Daddy, Lock. You can understand that because he feels it in the same way you feel the need for me to be your big brother,” he said. “Would you want me to be Bunny’s big brother instead of his Daddy?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened as he sat up, took his thumb out of his mouth, and shook his head emphatically.

“That’s not fair!” He said. “You’re only my big brother!”

“Then it’s settled,” Mycroft said, smiling. “I’ll be your big brother and Bunny’s Daddy, and you’ll both be my favorite boys. How does that sound?”

Sherlock thought for a moment, then shrugged his agreement. He didn’t like having to share Mycroft, but in reality he’d already been sharing him with the Bunny for some time now. Besides, it was clear Bunny needed Mycroft, and that wasn't going to change just because Sherlock didn't like it. What did it really matter what Bunny called Mycroft?

“My?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah, bud?”

“Does this mean Bunny’s my nephew, now?” Sherlock scrunched up his face in displeasure. He didn't want to be an Uncle. 

Mycroft chuckled. 

“No, buddy,” he said, brushing Sherlock’s hair out of his eyes. “I think Bunny still needs you to be his brother. What do you think?”

Sherlock shrugged, then nodded. 

“Okay,” Sherlock said, although he was skeptical. "But that’s not how it works."

Mycroft shrugged and guided Sherlock’s hand away from his mouth when he tried to suck his thumb again.

“That’s how it works with us," Mycroft said. "And that’s just fine by me.”

Sherlock wrapped his arms close to his chest and pressed himself up against Mycroft, a signal that he wanted to be held. Mycroft’s arms were around him in a moment, and Sherlock, sitting at the kitchen table in his brother’s arms, no longer felt anger or fear. Mycroft had always been there for him, and that would never change.


	16. Trouble while Playing at Pirates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Uncle Greg suggests that the boys play dress-up on a rainy afternoon, Sherlock's bossiness gets the better of him, leaving little John feeling confused and needy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're all the best! Your comments make me very happy and definitely inspire me to keep this story going! 
> 
> This chapter has some of my favorite things: bossy Sherlock, vulnerable John, wetting, and lots of angst. I haven't forgotten about the ideas you've all given me (I think the most recent ones are John/Sherlock suffering from some type of ailment, John being put in time out, and Sherlock sinking younger in headspace than John--remind me if I've forgotten yours). I'll do my best to find a way to add them in when I can! 
> 
> Keep sending your ideas and letting me know what you like so I know what direction to continue in. Sending you all positive vibes and bunny kisses! :)
> 
> Enjoy!

It was Uncle Greg who suggested dress-up after lunch. He'd been scouring the lake house attic, looking for a toolkit he could use to repair a shutter which had come loose during the storm, and had come across an old trunk of theatrical costumes, elaborate clothing clearly abandoned by some previous owners before the home had become a rental property. The late morning thunderstorms had passed, but they had given way to a steady dribbling rain which would keep the boys inside for the remainder of the day. Dress-up was Uncle Greg’s idea of a fun rainy day activity.

“Is it safe in the attic?” Mycroft asked, glancing skeptically across the table while the boys ate broccoli and macaroni and cheese. 

John ate voraciously, finally hungry again after the stress of the morning. He and Sherlock were both slipping back down in headspace; John had been glad to find Sherlock already aged down when he and Uncle Greg had come down for lunch. John was not young enough to want Mycroft to feed him, but he could feel himself a bit desperate for the man’s attention after denying himself his Daddy’s care for the sake of Sherlock all morning. He was sitting as close to him as he could while still staying put in his own chair.

“I want to play dress-up,” Bunny said around a spoonful of macaroni, glancing up at his Daddy as Uncle Greg re-filled his sippy cup with milk, and Sherlock, despite initially saying dress up was for girls--a quip John knew he made not because he truly believed it but because it fit into the rougher and more boyish personality he took on when he was little--clearly hoped Mycroft would permit the game, too.

“Please My?” Sherlock asked, acting sweet and compliant either to atone for his naughtiness earlier in the day or to keep from being punished further for it.

Mycroft made a show of contemplating whether or not he would permit it, but John could tell he wasn't really going to refuse. Not with Bunny and Sherlock pleading and Uncle Greg smirking. 

“Oh, alright,” he said with a smile. “But not for too long. I don't want you closed in with all the dust and debris up in that attic all afternoon.” 

Sherlock and Bunny had to be reminded to clear their plates and empty sippy cups to the sink before racing each other upstairs and to the attic. It wasn't nearly as decrepit a space as Mycroft had made it out to be. The attic was cluttered with old boxes and it was definitely dusty--Bunny immediately began sneezing once they had climbed the steep staircase into the darkened space--but it wasn't any more cluttered or dirty than the attic at Baker Street, where Mrs. Hudson kept far too many knick-knacks and tea kettles and her former husband’s albums of collected stamps.

The attic was little more than a large crawl space--the roof was peaked and the walls very short; Sherlock had to duck when he wasn’t standing directly in the middle of the space. For this reason, the boys climbed around on their hands and knees, yanking on the handles of the old steamer trunk Uncle Greg had left open, elaborate fabrics spilling over the edges, as they pulled it to the middle of the room. 

He watched while Sherlock yanked each item of clothing from the trunk and began sorting through the treasure trove of costumes. It was best for Bunny to sit back and watch for the time being; letting Sherlock determine the rules of the first game generally kept the little detective the most content. Besides, Bunny himself felt well settled in his littleness and cozy inside while the rain fell outside. It didn’t seem such a bad thing to let others make his decisions for the time being. 

It had been Uncle Greg who had settled John back into his Bunny headspace. When John emerged from the shower after his nap with Sherlock, he found the detective inspector wiping down the mattress cover on Sherlock’s bed, finishing up the clean-up job John had started before the itchiness of urine against his skin prodded him to wash up. 

“I’ll take care of that, Greg,” John said, bashful in his embarrassment. It was rare that John had to deal with any aspect of wetting while adult; he found himself feeling exceedingly vulnerable as he watched another man wipe up his pee. 

“Not a problem,” Greg said, “Nearly finished.”

John stood in the doorway, dressed in nothing more than a towel, and watched while Greg finished cleaning and re-making Sherlock’s bed with new sheets. He felt compelled to help out, knew he should step into the room and hook one side of the fitted sheet around the corners of the mattress while Greg hooked the other. But John was tired, and there was something pleasing about watching Greg’s efficiency, the ease and precision with which he moved.

“Good as new,” Greg said after tossing the pillows back into position at the head of the bed. “Need some help getting dressed?”

John opened his mouth to refuse. He was aged up, after all. He didn’t need Greg dressing him. But the part of him that hadn’t moved from his position, the part of him that liked the thought of a rainy afternoon aged down now that everything with Sherlock was back to normal, kept him from speaking up. He glanced at the floor and shrugged.

“Come on,” Greg said with a smirk, wrapping an arm around John’s shoulders. “You’re too cute for your own good.”

“Greg?” Bunny asked while he was being led across the hallway. Greg hummed to show he was listening. “I want to get little again,” John said. 

In actuality, John was well on his way. But he knew a bit of extra attention from Greg would help to solidify his headspace. Greg turned to smile at him. 

“Glad to hear that, kid,” he said. “Let’s get you dressed. You must be chilly, huh?”

Once John had allowed himself to be led across the hall, back into the purple bedroom, he glanced around to see that Greg must have cleaned up this room as well. The bed was made and John’s plush lion sat resting against the pillows.

“I’m afraid your bunny blanket didn’t escape the accident,” Greg said as he crossed to the dresser to find clothes for John to change into. 

John couldn’t help but look at Greg with worry, the part of him allowing his adult mind to slip away afraid at the prospect of being without his blanket. He sat on the edge of the bed and took his plush lion into his lap, stroking its fur. Not having the opportunity to cuddle with his blanket, knowing he hadn't taken care to make sure she'd been out of the way when he peed his underpants, made him want her all the more. 

“Don’t worry, champ,” Greg said, smiling to reassure John. “She’ll be clean and dry in no time.”

John nodded. He trusted Uncle Greg, and knew he would take good care of blanket. Greg placed a stack of clothes on the end of the bed, next to where John was sitting. 

“Up you go,” Greg said, and John stood. But when Greg held out a pull-up, John hesitated. 

“Don’t need it,” John mumbled, cheeks pinking, suddenly transitioning into headspace at a far quicker pace than a moment before. 

“You don’t have to use it,” Greg said, kneeling down so John could step into the training pants. “But you know an accident means a pull-up.”

“One more chance?” John tried. 

He thought about telling Uncle Greg it hadn’t been an accident, that he'd only wet himself because he hadn't wanted to leave the bed without making things right with Sherlock. But that wouldn't be the full truth, and, even if it was, he might get in trouble for peeing the bed on purpose. 

In any case, Greg was glancing at him with a look that told John wearing a pull-up was non-negotiable. John may have been able to get his way with Mycroft if he pouted and asked nicely, but Uncle Greg was a different story. Uncle Greg knew the importance of consistency. If the rule was that a pull-up was required after an accident, then John would be in a pull-up that afternoon. 

“Little boys need some extra help, sometimes, and that’s okay.” It was Greg’s way of reminding John that he’d just stated his desire to be little, his way of reinforcing what John already knew to be true: pull-ups could only help John to age down.

John whined a bit, surprising himself with how babyish it sounded, but he stepped into the pull-up and allowed Greg to settle it up around his hips. 

“Good boy,” Greg said, and John could not help but melt under the praise. 

Greg made quick work of dressing him in warm sweatpants cuffed at the ankle and a soft t-shirt before handing him his stuffed lion and telling him to hang tight. He was gone for only a moment before returning with one of his own sweaters, which he pulled over John’s head. It was far too big for John, but that was the point, a trick Mycroft and Greg sometimes used to help the boys age down. John felt warm and content and very young as Greg reached to roll back the sleeves which had fallen past John’s fingertips. Greg pulled up the hood, and John felt safe in Uncle Greg’s care.

By the time he sat watching Sherlock paw through old vests and jackets and hats and gloves, John was as settled into his headspace as he’d ever been, and was feeling at his youngest. He watched wide-eyed at the treasure trove of costumes emerging from the trunk. There were ties with geometric patterns and braided belts and dresses with fancy ribbons and gloves with specks of gold thread woven through the fabric. Bunny reached out and ran his finger along the hem of a flowered dress with a green satin sash. 

Sherlock, not surprisingly, decided after assessing the items they had from the trunk that they would play pirates. Bunny nodded, set Ariel the lion down on the attic floor and reached for a wide-brimmed hat with feathers sprouting from one side.

“Wear this and this and this,” Sherlock said, shoving clothing into Bunny’s arms.

The boys scrambled out of their outermost layers, leaving trousers and sweaters behind in their haste to dress in their newly chosen attire. Bunny remembered too late that he was wearing a pull-up, and caught Sherock looking as he stood in nothing more than a t-shirt and the embarrassing training pants.

“Uncle Greg said I had to,” he mumbled, but Sherlock had already moved on. He was pulling on a pair of white and black striped trousers far too big in the waist and a blousy collared shirt which ballooned out at the arms. He strung the shirt on over his own pirate shirt, the long-sleeved t-shirt that Sherlock was rarely without when in headspace. He found some old pieces of rope which he tied around his waist as a belt. More than likely he thought a pirate wouldn’t have used a real belt.

The game was a complicated series of negotiations which involved Sherlock explaining in long detail the rules of the pirate code onboard his ship. Bunny tried his best to follow along as he was ordered here and there, told what to say and how to act. They fought against competing pirate crews and rode out a nasty seastorm, but when Bunny pretended they had found mermaids, Sherlock shushed him and told him that hadn’t really happened. 

“Sherlock, can we play something else?” Bunny asked after what had felt like hours of playing at pirates. The shirt Sherlock had told him to wear was itchy, and he was tired of pirating. The game made his head hurt; there were too many rules he was expected him to remember, and Sherlock kept criticizing him for making mistakes. 

Bunny wanted to try on the other costumes. There were capes and crowns and tailcoats and a jester’s hat, all of which were fancier and more colorful than the drab pirate’s clothing Sherlock had made him wear. Sherlock’s game was violent and complicated and had gone on for far too long.

“It’s my turn to pick a game, now,” Bunny said, because that had always been the rule. Sherlock picks, and then Bunny picks. 

But Sherlock had either not heard Bunny’s request or was choosing to ignore it to prolong his own game. He was crouched on all fours drawing a treasure map, having earlier rushed downstairs to grab crayons and paper. He had left Bunny alone in the attic, and Bunny sat for a long time before he started to worry he’d been forgotten. He thought about leaving, but he was scared there were ghosts or monsters in the dark corners of the attic that would grab him if he moved. Eventually Sherlock’s loud footsteps in the thick boots he had pulled on to complete his pirate costume had come at last, and Bunny had breathed a sigh of relief. 

But Sherlock’s mind was as one-tracked as ever when he returned, and it seemed, now that he had reemerged, he was solely focused on completing the treasure map.

Bunny rubbed his nose, recovering from another sneezing fit. The dust from the attic had been irritating his nose and his eyes all afternoon, and when he sneezed he felt it low in his stomach, which meant he should probably take a trip to the loo to pee sometime soon. Bunny was starting to hope Mycroft’s allotted time for playing dress up in the attic would be over soon.

“Sherlock, can I help you color in the map?” Bunny tried, his voice a bit louder as he knelt next to Sherlock. 

“Almost finished,” Sherlock said, on all fours scribbling a few more symbols onto the papers spread across the floor. The map was color coded, contained an elaborate key Bunny could not understand, and took up six or eight pieces of paper that had been taped together, which must have been what had taken Sherlock so long when he’d gone downstairs. 

“Okay, now I’m the pirate captain,” Sherlock said as he sat back on his heels, placing his pirate hat back onto his head. He had removed to it be better able to see while he drew. The hat crushed the curls of hair on his forehead into his eyes, and Sherlock scrabbled his fingers over his face to push them away. “And you’re the damsel in distress.” 

Sherlock grabbed a flowered dress and pressed it into Bunny’s lap. 

Bunny really didn't want to play pirates anymore. But if Sherlock wouldn’t let them play a different game, maybe Bunny could find a way to make this one more fun, and at least Sherlock was letting him wear one of the pretty dresses. Sherlock usually teased him for his affection for Disney princesses and his desire to color with pinks and purples in butterfly coloring books, but there was no hint of animosity or malice in Sherlock’s gaze now. 

Bunny was grateful to climb out of the scratchy outfit he’d been dressed in for over an hour and into the dress Sherlock had chosen. He pulled the dress over his head and Sherlock yanked him by the green sash and tied it tight around Bunny’s middle, impatient for Bunny to be in his new character because it best suited Sherlock's own desires to keep playing. The dress was far too long on Bunny and tight across the chest, but he didn't mind. 

“The pirates are capturing you!” Sherlock yelled suddenly, grabbing Bunny by the shoulders and shoving him backwards, off balance. 

Bunny stumbled and was pressed against a column in the center of the attic. Sherlock yanked the rope he had been using to keep his pants up from the belt loops of his trousers, pressing Bunny up against the column with his elbow. Bunny was pushing at Sherlock’s arm, trying to get him to stop hurting his collarbone, and before he understood what was happening, Sherlock had tied his hands together behind the column, the rope digging into his wrists. 

“Let me go,” Bunny said, distressed, trying to yank himself free from where he was tied to the column.

“Never, traitorous prisoner!” Sherlock cried, laughing maniacally as if it pleased him to see Bunny tied up.

“I don't want to be tied up, Sherlock,” Bunny whined before breaking down into a sneezing fit once more. He rubbed his nose against his shoulder because his hands were tied behind him. 

“Don't be a baby,” Sherlock said, voice harsh, glaring at Bunny because he had broken out of character and called Sherlock by his real name. “This is how you play pirates.”

Bunny sniffled, close to tears from the dust in the air as much as from how Sherlock was treating him. 

Sherlock held the map out in front of him, telling him he could escape if he could accurately decipher the escape route on the map. Bunny did want to be a big boy like Sherlock, wanted to follow the right rules so Sherlock would stop criticizing him for getting things wrong. But Sherlock’s rules were too much to keep track of, and Bunny couldn't read Sherlock’s handwriting on the map or understand the key Sherlock had added in the corner. 

Bunny was tired of being in the attic. It was getting stuffy in the small space and his eyes hurt from the dust and he really should go downstairs soon to wee. 

“I don't want to play, anymore,” Bunny said, his voice sounding far more panicked than he had intended. He yanked at the rope around his wrists, and when he made no progress in getting himself free, he felt the tears welling up in his eyes.

“Too bad,” Sherlock said, shrugging. “You’re my prisoner. So you have to do what I say.” 

The game continued on, Sherlock forcing Bunny to read a map that only made sense to Sherlock himself, Sherlock untying Bunny from the column only to traipse him around the attic and then tie him to the staircase railing, which he said was the captain’s cabin, or to force him to pull heavy boxes from one side of the attic to another, his onboard chores as a captured prisoner. 

Bunny became increasingly frustrated, but every time he asked Sherlock if they could stop and play something else, Sherlock said he was a baby who obviously couldn't handle games for big boys, and Bunny kept his mouth shut. 

Eventually, however, Bunny’s bladder was too full to keep from shifting back and forth on his feet as he followed Sherlock's orders to cook the captain’s dinner--shark meat, Sherlock said, from the shark he had captured single-handedly. He started to cry, feeling uncomfortable and out of options. Sherlock ignored him. The bunny was confused, stuck between his own needs and the desire to be a big kid and please his big brother. 

“Sherlock, I have to go,” Bunny said when he couldn’t stand it any longer. His voice was quiet, cheeks pinking beneath the tear-stains. He squeezed his thighs together and wiggled in place. He knew Sherlock had noticed his problem long minutes ago, had chosen to ignore it. Sherlock himself had to go too, Bunny could tell. He’d squeezed between his legs a time or two while they played. But Sherlock could hold it longer than Bunny could, he had more practice at it, which only made Bunny feel littler.

Sherlock was currently in the middle of adding a war plan to the back of his treasure map, scribbling furiously as he explained which was enemy territory and which was neutral ground. 

“Sherlock,” Bunny pleaded. He was going to wet his pants if Sherlock didn't let him go soon.

“Hold it,” Sherlock said, dismissing Bunny’s need. “You don’t have time to go now. We’re about to go to war.”

Bunny cried harder. He wasn’t trying to make things difficult or to ruin Sherlock’s game, but he was tired of being bossed around and his belly hurt from needing to pee and his eyes and nose and chest hurt from the dust. He wanted to be free of the attic and the costumes and back downstairs with Mycroft and Uncle Greg. 

“Enemy flag sighted!” Sherlock yelled, and began shouting orders in accordance with his plan of attack. 

Bunny tried to listen. He tried to do what Sherlock asked as he held him by the arm and dragged him from corner to corner of the attic. But after a while it was all too much, and soon he stopped moving and stood still, knowing he couldn't hold it anymore. 

“I really have to go potty,” Bunny said when Sherlock turned to see why he had stopped moving. Bunny started to cry audibly as he felt a spurt of pee wet his pull-up. He pressed between his legs and held himself. “I can't hold it anymore,” he said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as if he were sick of having to deal with Bunny’s babyish behavior.

“Just go in your diaper, already,” Sherlock said, voice cruel and biting. 

“It's not a diaper,” Bunny said in one final attempt to hold onto his pride. But it was no use, and he cried louder as he realized for the first time that of course Sherlock was right; the pull-ups had never been anything but diapers disguised as something else. He was nothing more than a baby, just like Sherlock said. Bunny held himself and twisted his legs together, but it was no use, and he stood, crying, as he started to wet his pants. 

“You won't make it to the toilet now, anyway,” Sherlock sneered despite that fact that he himself was standing with thighs pressed close together, clearly holding his own bladder. “I can tell you're already doing it.”

“I’m not!” Bunny cried, but even as he said it he could feel the pull-up getting wetter, could feel his body letting go. 

Urine spilled into the pull-up full force, warm and gushing against Bunny’s skin. He could not help but break down in sobs as he felt the Goodnight begin to expand between his legs, filling up with his pee. He glanced down and spread his hands across the front of his crotch, but it must have been clear to Sherlock that he was losing it. 

“Told you,” Sherlock said, an eyebrow raised. 

There was a bit less of an edge to Sherlock’s voice, however, as if he had finally snapped out of his one-track mind solely focused on playing pirates and could actually see Bunny’s distress. Sherlock pressed down between his own legs, as if watching Bunny wet his pull-up caused Sherlock to begin feeling desperate himself. 

“It’s okay,” Sherlock said quietly after a moment. He untied the sash of the dress and pulled it off of Bunny, who allowed his arms to be pulled up so the dress could be stripped of him and he could at last be taken out of the game. Sherlock finally seemed to understand his little brother wasn’t okay, that he needed comfort because he hadn't exactly been looking out for Bunny’s needs. Bunny knew by the somewhat frightened tone in Sherlock’s voice that he had not meant to be intentionally cruel. 

“You’ll just get a new pull-up and it will all be okay,” Sherlock said, obviously unsettled by the unrelenting sound of Bunny’s sobbing. “I’ll say it was my fault.”

But Sherlock’s words only made Bunny cry harder, and as he felt the pull-up thick and heavy and his bladder still emptying, he knew it would leak even before he felt the trickle of urine run across his thigh. Bunny knew Sherlock could see the pull-up leaking down his leg and onto the floor, and he couldn’t do anything more than collapse onto the ground and hug his knees into his chest, hiding his blushing face and trying to keep Sherlock from seeing that he was still wetting himself. 

He made his body as small as he could, feeling vulnerable and scared dressed in nothing but a sodden pull-up he had just wet and sitting in a puddle from where it had leaked onto the floor. He was going to get in trouble with Daddy, and Uncle Greg would say I told you so for making him wear a pull-up, and Sherlock wouldn’t want to play with him anymore. 

“It’s okay, Bunny,” Sherlock tried. “It was an accident.” 

But Bunny could not be comforted by Sherlock. He wanted Mycroft, and he wanted him now.

“I want Daddy!” Bunny wailed. 

Sherlock blinked back at him with wide eyes. It was the first time Bunny had called Mycroft Daddy in front of Sherlock, but Bunny didn't have the mental energy to contemplate that at the moment. He wanted Mycroft. He needed Mycroft. 

Sherlock nodded and told Bunny he would get him. His countenance was chagrined, as if he now fully realized the role he’d played in Bunny’s distress. Sherlock turned to start down the stairs, but before he got very far, they heard Mycroft calling. It was clear the adults had already heard Bunny’s cries, and they were up the attic steps before Sherlock was halfway down them.

“Bun?” Mycroft called even before he’d come into Bunny’s sight line. It was comforting to know he'd recognized Bunny's cries as separate from those he knew to be Sherlock's. 

Mycroft’s steps were quick and light on the wooden staircase.

Bunny was sobbing, wet and sad and needy, but he reached his arms out towards Mycroft when the man appeared. 

“Need you, Daddy,” he sniffled between sobs, breath hitching on his cries. 

It was a relief when Mycroft was fully up the attic steps and pulling Bunny into his arms, and it was even more of a relief when Mycroft carried him downstairs and out of the attic before rocking him back and forth, his hand running steady between Bunny’s shoulderblades, grounding him. Bunny latched his legs around Mycroft’s waist and hooked his arms around his neck, where he also pressed his face as he cried. 

“Oh, Honey Bun,” Mycroft cooed. “You're okay. I’ve got you, sweetheart. You don't need to cry.” 

But Bunny was beyond being able to keep himself from tears, and he wailed until he grew too tired to do anything but hiccup and sniffle. His throat felt raw and his eyelashes were stuck together with wetness. 

“Well, that was a very big cry,” Daddy said when Bunny lay quieter at last, collapsed against Mycroft, exhausted. 

Bunny was feeling nonverbal, young and vulnerable and desperate to never leave his Daddy’s presence again. He saw Uncle Greg standing not far off, Sherlock half-hidden behind him yet holding Uncle Greg’s hand; it was clear Sherlock needed his own breed of comfort.

When Mycroft next spoke, it was to address Sherlock, not Bunny, so Bunny turned his face back into Mycroft's neck.

“What happened, Lock?”

Bunny knew Sherlock was stalling, could hear him hemming and hawing.

“He had an accident,” Sherlock mumbled after some time, voice quiet and shy. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft warned in his sternest voice. 

“I maybe told him he wasn't allowed to go?” Sherlock said, voice inflection moving upwards as if he were asking a question.

“Sherlock!” Uncle Greg said, shock in his voice. Bunny felt Mycroft shake his head, could picture the look of disappointment on his Daddy’s face even as he kept his eyes pressed into Mycroft’s neck.

“We were playing!” Sherlock said, voice whiny as he tried to escape punishment. “I didn’t know he had to go bad.”

Bunny shifted, uncomfortable in the wet pull-up and too emotionally spent to argue with what Sherlock said. He wanted Mycroft to clean him up and take him away so it could be just the two of them. He wanted his lion and his blanket and his pacifier, and he felt tears falling again when he remembered his lion was still up in the attic and his blanket had needed to be washed. 

Mycroft shushed John, telling him everything would be okay.

“We’ll be having a very long discussion later, young man,” Mycroft said to Sherlock. “I’m very disappointed in you.”

Sherlock was now crying, but Bunny felt nothing but relief as he was carried away by his Daddy, who took him into the bathroom to draw a warm bath.


	17. Bath Time Apologies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi lovelies--It's been a rough few days, so I needed some cuteness! Hope this chapter will bring some comfort to those of you also dealing with negativity. We'll be okay! xoxox

Mycroft knew he should have checked up on the boys earlier. There had been far too much mischief for one day already; if Greg hadn’t distracted him with an impromptu kiss on the lips over the jigsaw puzzle which had quickly moved them onto the couch, hands roving, he would have realized that it only stood to reason that the drama would continue into the afternoon. 

All in all, the boys had only been alone for an hour and a half. Mycroft had sent Greg to the bottom of the stairs to listen in and make sure all seemed well on two separate occasions, and he had checked in with Sherlock when the boy had bounded down the stairs looking for paper and markers for his treasure map. Every indication was that the boys were having fun playing dress up. Greg and Mycroft had been relieved that the drama of the morning had been solved, even a bit pleased with themselves for the roles they had played in its resolution. 

But as Mycroft tested the temperature of the bath water and listened to his youngest sniffle and hiccup through lingering tears, he could not help but shake his head at their hubris. They hadn’t been diligent enough that afternoon, and now they had a weepy Bunny on their hands and a trouble-making Sherlock certainly in need of a spanking for the way he had behaved towards his little brother. Any prospect of an easy afternoon after the trouble of the morning had long since disappeared.

“Let’s get you out of that yucky pull-up, sweetheart,” Mycroft said, pulling Bunny by the arm a bit closer to where he was kneeling in front of the tub. Mycroft had rolled his shirtsleeves up past his elbows before turning on the faucet.

Bunny rubbed at his eyes with the back of one hand as Mycroft tore the sides of the pull-up and removed the sodden diaper from the boy. Bunny’s cheeks pinked, and his slid his thumb into his mouth. Mycroft patted the boy on the hip, comforting him before standing to toss the pull-up into the trash. 

“Sorry, daddy,” Bunny said when Mycroft turned back to face him, voice small around the thumb in his mouth.

“What are you sorry for, love?” Mycroft asked. 

He crouched down to Bunny’s eye level and gently guided his thumb out of his mouth to better hear the boy. 

“I’m supposed to be a big boy,” Bunny said, looking pitifully sad but, Mycroft was relieved to see, at least still making eye contact.

Mycroft placed a hand on each of Bunny’s shoulders. 

“Listen to me, Bun,” he said, wanting nothing more than to comfort the sweet man in front of him, to make him understand that he had done nothing wrong. “It’s been a tough day for everyone. We woke up much too early and with far too much stress, and we’ve spent the day navigating a rather emotional set of circumstances. But, throughout it all, you’ve been nothing but a good, sweet boy.”

Bunny was looking up at him with hope for the first time all day, and Mycroft could not help but smile at the man’s innocence in headspace. 

“You’ve been there for your big brother throughout it all,” Mycroft continued. “And you know what? That’s how a big boy acts. I’m proud of you, Bunny.”

Bunny reached forward to hug Mycroft, who wrapped his arms tight around the other man. Mycroft was keeping notes on the actions he took to pull Bunny out of sadness. He’d had years of practice with distraught Sherlock, knew how to read his brother’s emotions in both adult and little headspace. But Sherlock’s fits and upsets were different than John’s; Mycroft at times still felt unmoored when faced with John’s tears, so it was a relief to feel the man a bit closer to contentment. 

“But I wet Sherlock’s bed,” Bunny said into Mycroft’s chest, “and then I hadda ‘nother accident.”

“Even big boys have trouble now and then,” Mycroft said as nonchalantly as possible. “Nothing a bath and some laundry can’t fix up good as new for my sweet boy.”

When Bunny pulled away from the hug to wipe his nose, Mycroft cupped his cheek and smiled down at him. Bunny nuzzled into the hand against his cheek.

“Missed you, Daddy,” he said. 

“I missed you, too, Bun,” Mycroft said, leaning down to kiss the boy on the forehead. 

Mycroft had been with John the entire day, in both his adult and child headspaces, but, emotionally, they had avoided each other for Sherlock’s sake, a silent agreement passing between them to put Sherlock’s needs first until the stress of the day had been resolved. It was comforting to be able to settle back into the role he knew was best for John, grounding to be able to care for John completely once more. 

“What do you say we get your little bare bum into the tub before your goosebumps get goosebumps?” Mycroft asked.

“Daddy,” Bunny giggled, stretching out the vowels of the word as if embarrassed that Mycroft had drawn attention to his nakedness. 

But he let Mycroft help him into the now half-full tub, and Mycroft was pleased to distract the boy with a basket of bath toys while he washed away the tear-streaks from his little bunny’s cheeks. 

There was a knock on the door after Mycroft had washed up the bunny and had settled back to let the boy play. Mycroft and Bunny looked up from the wall of the tub where they were playing tic-tac-toe with bath crayons. Bunny was covered in bubbles and surrounded by his favorite plastic mermaids. His hair was wet and dripping into his face, but he was happy at last. 

“Stay right there,” Mycroft instructed, and Bunny nodded.

Mycroft opened the bathroom door to find himself face to face with Greg, who was bringing a dry change of clothes for John. Mycroft could see a bashful Sherlock hiding behind Greg, dressed in his dinosaur pajamas, his thumb in his mouth.

“I figured it would be an early bedtime for these two after some dinner,” Greg said to account for Sherlock’s clothing as well as the set of Bunny’s pajamas he passed through the opened door. 

Mycroft nodded. He had been thinking the same thing, particularly given the wide, gaping yawns Bunny had been taken by during his bath. Mycroft was pleased he had been able to depend on Greg to deal with Sherlock while he had cared for John. There had been a time he would have felt compelled to instruct Greg on the proper ways to handle and discipline Sherlock, a time when he would have micro-managed. But he had been working on trusting Greg, had comforted himself with the knowledge that the man’s parenting instincts were as keen as anyone’s and that he cared for the boys immensely. 

“There’s someone here who’d like to say a little something to the Bunny if he’s up for it,” Greg said as Mycroft took the clothing from Greg. He could see the man had passed along a clean pull-up as well as a pair of underwear, perhaps anticipating that Bunny may be too upset to follow the rule of pull-ups after an accident, as he had been after his daytime accident the day previous. 

“Bun,” Mycroft called as he set the clothing on the edge of the sink. “Is it okay if Sherlock comes in for a minute?”

Bunny turned from where he had been drawing a fish on the edge of the tub and glanced up at Mycroft with wide eyes, unsure. 

“It’s okay if you’d like to wait until later,” Mycroft said, wanting Bunny to know he had every right to space if that’s what he needed at the moment. “It’s your decision.”

“It’s okay,” Bunny said after a moment, and Mycroft nodded to Greg, who stepped back from the doorway to let Sherlock through. 

Sherlock was fumbling with the hem of his pajama shirt as he stepped tentatively into the bathroom. His hair was wet, combed back from his face; Greg must have given Sherlock a bath in the master bathroom down the hall. He smirked at Greg’s genius. Sherlock had not particularly needed a bath, but he would have needed comfort and support after the timeout Greg had undoubtedly put him in, something Sherlock never accepted easily. The bath would have not only kept Sherlock in one space while allowing Greg the time to hold the conversation he needed to have with the mischief-maker, but would have given Sherlock an excuse to accept touch, would have allowed Sherlock to be taken care of so as to distract him from any self-abasement which may have settled in. Mycroft doubted if he would have thought of it, but he could see now that it had been the perfect option. 

Bunny was blinking up at Sherlock, clutching his plastic mermaids in his hands.

After a moment where he yanked on his pajama shirt some more, Sherlock began to speak. He only made quick, passing eye contact with Bunny. Mycroft had the impulse to remind Sherlock to keep eye contact, a struggle for Sherlock both big and little, but he kept quiet, not wanting to distract the boy from his apology. 

“Um, I wanted to say I’m sorry that...“ Sherlock glanced up towards the bathroom door at Greg, who nodded at him, encouraging him to continue. 

“...that I didn’t pay attention to your needs,” Sherlock continued as if pleased to be remembering something he had rehearsed. It was clear Greg had helped Sherlock work out what he wanted to say, had helped to provide the words when Sherlock could not decipher his own emotions. “And I’m sorry I bossed you around and...and didn’t listen when you said you didn’t want to play anymore.”

Sherlock looked back up to Greg for approval once more. Mycroft was impressed. It was clear Greg had had a very productive conversation with Sherlock, that he had gotten Sherlock to process the events of the afternoon in a way even Mycroft was unsure he would have been able to.

“And?” Greg prompted.

Sherlock blinked a bit, thinking, before he gave a sudden “oh,” and kept talking.

“And I don’t think you’re a baby,” Sherlock said. “And I’m sorry for teasing you because I don’t like it when people tease me, either.”

Sherlock seemed to be finished with his apology, but Bunny only glanced up at him with wide eyes. Mycroft worried that it was too much for the boy, that the Bunny had slipped too much in headspace or would be too overwhelmed to respond. He began to think he would need to step in. But Bunny swallowed and reached a hand out towards Sherlock, passing him one of the plastic mermaid bath toys.

“It’s okay,” he said, and Sherlock suddenly brightened, smiling as if freed from the weight of his bad behavior. He reached for the plastic mermaid and kneeled on the bathmat to place her next to the others, lined up along the edge of the tub, as Bunny began explaining the game he had been playing with them. Mycroft stepped in before Sherlock and Bunny got too far involved in the game.

“Alright, boys, let’s get Bunny out of the tub so we can get you both some dinner,” Mycroft said, guiding Sherlock to stand up from his place outside of the tub. “Uncle Greg has a surprise for you both before bed if you’re good.”

“Uncle Greg put me in time out for a really long time, Mycroft,” Sherlock explained as Mycroft led him out of the bathroom by the shoulders. “But he said if I was really sorry maybe I wouldn’t get a spanking but that wasn’t his decision; it was yours. So, am I gonna get a spanking, My?”

Mycroft smirked up at Greg, who shrugged from his place just outside the bathroom, looking a bit contrite. Greg had always had a bit of a soft spot for Sherlock; it was no wonder he had come up with excuses not to spank the boy, despite knowing it would have been Mycroft’s course of action. 

“He put you in time out for a really long time, you say?” Mycroft asked, eyebrow raised.

Sherlock nodded emphatically.

“Uh-huh,” he said. “For ages and ages. And then he even made me clean up Bunny’s pee-pee from the floor in the attic. So, can I not be spanked? Please, please?”

Mycroft shared a look of surprised amusement with Greg. Making the boy clean up John’s urine was an interesting choice, but one that would have certainly instilled in the boy a sense of his own responsibility for the events of the afternoon. Not to mention, it would have given Greg an easier excuse to get Sherlock to agree to a bath. Mycroft hadn’t been giving Greg enough credit; the man had certainly held his own with Sherlock. 

“What do you say, Uncle Greg?” Mycroft asked, smiling. “Do you think our boy has been punished enough?”

Greg smirked back towards Mycroft, catching his eye. The spark of connection that had come over them as they made out on the couch downstairs earlier that day was still buzzing between them, perhaps even elevated by the way in which Greg had impressed Mycroft by managing to right the afternoon’s wrongs in one fell-swoop.

“Hard to tell,” Greg teased. “But if he's up for helping me cook dinner, I'd say we chalk it up to a long day and let him off the hook this once.”

“Please, My?” Sherlock pleaded, grabbing onto Mycroft’s arm. “Please! I promise I’ll be a good boy from now on and I’ll pay attention to Bunny’s needs like a big brother is apposed to!” 

Mycroft pretended to be deep in thought for a moment, but he soon relented, giving his okay. Sherlock leaped into Mycroft’s arms with a litany of exclaimed thank yous.

“Good boy,” Mycroft said, catching Sherlock and giving him a hug. “Now go help Uncle Greg make dinner while I get your brother out of the tub, okay?”

“Okay!” Sherlock said, jumping down and grabbing Uncle Greg by the hand to pull him down the hallway. Greg glanced back at Mycroft with a look of amusement, and Mycroft could not help but laugh. 

He returned to the bathroom in high spirits to find his good little bunny playing quietly with his mermaids. 

“Let’s get you nice and dry,” he said, and Bunny, the good boy that he was, immediately obeyed by standing up and letting Mycroft help him out of the tub. 

Bunny did not argue against the pull-up. In fact, he seemed rather relieved that Mycroft had not even given him the choice between that and underwear. Mycroft hoped it was a sign that the boy was getting used to them, was feeling less self-conscious about wearing them. After all, Mycroft could not help but think he looked cute in them.

In no time at all, Mycroft was carrying a dry and dressed Bunny downstairs to the dinner table, where his clean baby blanket and stuffed lion were waiting for him. Mycroft sat in his seat and breathed a sigh of relief. His little bunny was clean and warm, and his little brother was happy--Mycroft could hear him giggling in the kitchen as Greg did funny voices to entertain him. 

It had been a rough day, but with the promise of a simple dinner and cuddles while Uncle Greg surprised the boys with a new book before an early bedtime, he knew they would manage to make it through.


	18. Sleepy contemplations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, lovelies!
> 
> It's been a while since I've posted, huh? Sorry for the delay! It's been very busy lately (mostly for good reasons, some not so good), but I finally had time to get some writing done tonight. I haven't had time to edit as well as I'd like to, and this chapter gave me a bit of trouble, but I promised myself I'd update before I went to sleep, so please let me know if there are any gaping plot confusions or if I missed any grammar/typo issues. I may come back to edit a bit the next time I have a free moment.
> 
> This chapter has some shifts in headspace for John, and a few moments of adult John caring for Sherlock since that's been requested so often! Otherwise, it's mainly just more fluff and cuteness with some character development thrown in for good measure.
> 
> Thank you as always for your amazingly kind comments. I'm too tired to go through and respond to them tonight, but I promise to respond to each of them asap!
> 
> Hope you're all doing better than last time we connected (the consensus seemed to be that everyone was having pretty tough weeks). Sending love and bunny kisses!

When John blinked awake on the cot in Sherlock’s bedroom, he was in a transition space between big and little. 

Initially, he was confused as to why he was sleeping in Sherlock’s room, but as he came into himself he vaguely remembered resting in Uncle Greg’s arms, half-asleep, as Sherlock insisted that Bunny sleep in his room so he could prove just how responsible of a big brother he could be. John had been too tired to care where he was put to bed, having been moments from sleep since Uncle Greg had first begun reading the new storybook he had bought them after dinner. Amazingly, the man had managed to find a children’s book about a Bunny pirate. 

He had been tired even before dinner had begun, needing to be fed because he had almost fallen asleep in his spaghetti. It had been a long, draining day, and Bunny had been relieved when Uncle Greg had placed him down in the cot next to Sherlock and kissed him goodnight. 

John wasn’t sure what had woken him until he saw the overhead hallway light turn off and realized Mycroft and Greg must be going to bed themselves. There was a domestic contentment to the entire scene: Sherlock dozing next to him, stuffed alligator clutched to his chest and hair mussed from his pillow, Mycroft and Greg readying themselves for bed down the hallway. John could not help but feel safe, grateful for the lifestyle he had fallen into. 

“Bunny?” Sherlock mumbled, somehow making strong on his promise to watch over his little brother despite his sleepiness. 

“I’m fine, Sherlock,” John said, “Nothing’s wrong. I just woke up because Mycroft and Greg are going to bed.”

“Okay, John,” Sherlock said, voice husky from sleep as he sat up in bed and ran a hand down his face, seemingly to wake himself up. He had clearly noticed that John was in an adult headspace.

“Go back to sleep, Sherlock,” John said. “Everything’s okay.”

John was speaking honestly. Despite the harrowing events of the morning and afternoon, the day had ended on a comforting note. He felt content, pleased to know they still had a full day and a half at the lake house, that he could be little again whenever he chose. 

“John?” Sherlock said, putting his thumb into his mouth as he lay back down and shimmied down under the sheets.

“Do you want your pacifier, bud?” John asked, smiling as he slipped into caretaker mode with the boy.

Sherlock nodded, eyes closed as if already falling back to sleep, and John sat up to fish around in the nightstand drawer, where he knew Greg had put Sherlock’s favorite pacifier. 

“Here you go, love,” John said, smiling at the picture Sherlock made so young and sleepy. The man allowed the pacifier to be pushed between his lips. 

“Tell me a story, John,” Sherlock said after a moment, voice slurred around the pacifier, and John nodded and did not hesitate to get up out of bed and crawl in beside Sherlock, who shifted to the side and then lay against John, who was now fully adult despite his babyish pajamas and the pull-up he wore underneath. 

“You start,” John prompted. It was a game they played whenever John cared for little Sherlock, one that had begun months ago, on a night John was exhausted from caring for a very needy and mischievous little Sherlock who had not wanted to go to sleep. 

Sherlock snuggled closer into John’s side, suddenly wide-eyed at the prospect of storytelling.

“There was once…” Sherlock paused, drawing out the end of the word to signal that John was meant to fill in the next detail.

“A deaf earwig,” John said, and Sherlock dissolved into giggles. 

On the night they had first played the game, John had been too tired and frustrated to do anything but include the first ridiculous thought that had come into his mind when Sherlock prompted him to fill in the gaps of the story’s narrative. Luckily, Sherlock had been too entertained to notice the snarkiness in John’s voice, and soon found the entire ordeal was great fun. It turned out that John’s random lists of items made for hilarious images and conflicts. It had been a double-edged sword for John; the game had finally put Sherlock to bed on that first night after a long ordeal, but Sherlock began asking to play the story game every single time John put him to bed from that point forward. 

“He lived in…” Sherlock said when he’d recovered from laughing around his pacifier.

“A rusty old saxophone,” John said, leaning up against the headboard as he draped his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders.

“And he worked as a…”

“Ballet instructor.”

“And he kept a pet…”

“Armadillo.”

Sherlock snorted a laugh and pressed his face into John’s side. John skirted his fingers down along Sherlock’s ribcage, tickling him, and Sherlock squealed in protest. 

“Time to sleep,” John said when he finally released Sherlock from his tickling. “It’s late.”

“I want to play more,” Sherlock whined, but John shushed him and signaled for him to settle back down. 

“I’m thirsty,” Sherlock tried halfheartedly, lifting his gaze towards John. 

John shook his head, not engaging with Sherlock’s stalling tactics. He waited until Sherlock was lying prone on the bed, then began running his fingertips up and down the boy’s back, singing some half-remembered song under his breath. Sherlock was restless for only a moment before settling down, and then his body became boneless and limp as he absently suckled on his pacifier. 

John continued stroking the boy’s back even after he could feel the steady rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest signalling that he had fallen asleep. If anyone had any doubts about little space being beneficial for Sherlock, they only had to see how much easier it was for Sherlock to fall asleep when young, and John knew they would never doubt again. 

It had been some time since John had cared for a young Sherlock, and he was pleased Mycroft and Greg had been able to pick up the slack while John had been dwelling for longer times in little space. As much as he loved caring for Sherlock, the quiet nights back at Baker Street shared by the two of them, There were questions he still needed to answer about being little, questions he knew Mycroft and Greg were wordlessly helping him to process by caring for him as attentively as they had over the course of their time at the lake house.

The day had been draining. John was feeling the effects of the emotional ups and downs, particularly given his breakdown up in the attic earlier that afternoon. Being young comforted and calmed him, but there was a different kind of comfort in coming up for air every once in awhile to process his thoughts as an adult. John needed moments of adulthood between long sessions in headspace or he was prone to pulling himself out of headspace with overthinking. At that moment, sitting sentinel over a sleeping Sherlock as Mycroft and Greg settled to sleep down the hallway, John was glad for the quiet moment to process the day’s events in his adult mind. 

John could not help but feel a quick stab of embarrassment as he remembered the way he had wet his pants while playing with Sherlock that afternoon. There had been no option for him within the moment to leave the game and listen to his own body’s needs instead of to Sherlock’s demands, something which fascinated the strong-willed and self-admittedly headstrong man. There was a reason John sunk lower in age than Sherlock did during ageplay. Given that he had always felt the burden of being the older brother, he enjoyed slipping low and letting others make most of his decisions. But that afternoon he’d lost himself to the extent that he’d been unable to act of his own accord, which was a bit disconcerting. The entire situation had been rather overwhelming, and had led to his teary cries for Daddy. 

But, as he thought through the day’s events, John was not entirely against the idea of losing autonomy more often. It was a feeling he had experienced on rare occasions while in headspace, most notably during his trip to the zoo with Uncle Greg, and the after-effects of such a complete lack of control had never been entirely negative. John’s emotional breakdowns prompted by such complete helplessness were freeing; when he came back into himself he often felt nothing but a quiet yet electric contentment. 

It did not escape John’s mind that these instances of found helplessness more often than not included him wetting his pants. He knew this was part of the appeal of wetting himself, that the lack of control he experienced whenever he had an accident was somehow freeing. 

There was a part of John which thought about waking Mycroft and asking him to talk through the doubts and confusion roaming around his mind regarding this desire to lose control, to sink lower. But he knew already what Mycroft would tell him, could imagine the man’s words from the first night John had called him Daddy, the night Greg had babysat and John had wet himself on the couch: it’s fine. It’s all fine. And, for the first time, John could see himself believing that this was true. If he wanted to wet his pants when he was Bunny, if he had desires only half-formed in his mind about being potty trained and taken by his Daddy to use the loo because it would help him feel less in control and thus less adult, what did it matter? He wasn’t hurting anyone, and Mycroft and Greg were more than understanding.

John smiled, at comfort with the thoughts in his mind for what felt like the first time since he had begun ageplaying. It would all be okay.

“Sherlock?” John whispered through the dimness of the room. His voice was softer, settling back down into his younger self. “Lock?”

John wanted the same type of comfort Mycroft had given him after his accident and during dinner, the same type of comfort he had received when Mycroft bathed John and fed him and cuddled with him as Greg read aloud. He thought it might be the only thing that could work to lead him to the sleep he so desperately needed. 

Sherlock rubbed his eyes as he groaned and blinked awake. 

“Hi, Bunny,” he said when he had taken in John’s current state. “Are you okay?”

John nodded, but he made himself small against the headboard. It was the fastest he had aged down in quite some time, and, although happy to be young, Bunny was reeling a bit from the shift in his mindset. 

“Should I get Mycroft?” Sherlock asked.

The prospect of Mycroft’s arms around him sounded like the most appealing situation in the world at the moment, and John felt surprisingly as if he might cry from the sheer fact that it was available to him just down the hallway.

“Do you need your Daddy?” Sherlock tried when John did not respond, possibly misunderstanding John’s thoughtful silence with distress. 

John opened his mouth to answer, then realized he would rather not speak, that he would rather let Sherlock do that talking at the moment. He chewed on the knuckle of his index finger and nodded. 

Sherlock sat up and pulled the pacifier from his own mouth to offer it to John, who leaned forward and took the plastic bulb of the pirate pacifier in his mouth. He smiled and wiped his teary eyes. 

“Come on,” Sherlock said, and John stood from the bed as he took hold of the hand Sherlock was holding out to him.

Sherlock led him by the hand down the hallway. They paused in front of the master bedroom, where he peeked his head into the cracked doorway. John leaned down to see through as well, trying to adjust his eyes from the soft light given off by the hallway nightlight to the darkness of the bedroom.

“See if they’re awake,” Sherlock whispered, turning towards John.

John shook his head and pointed to Sherlock, signalling that he wanted him to do it. They turned again to look inside the bedroom, and this time Bunny could see his Daddy sleeping in Uncle Greg’s arms. Both boys knew they were allowed to wake up either man with any problem large or small, but they were sleeping so soundly; it seemed a shame to disturb them.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock called tentatively, but his voice was little more than a whisper, and the two men slept on. 

“Uncle Greg?” Sherlock called, voice a bit louder, and this time the men stirred. It was Uncle Greg who, with a deep breath, woke up to glance up at them.

“Everything, okay, boys?” he asked, sitting up and nudging Bunny’s Daddy awake.

Sherlock tried to push Bunny forward, suddenly shy about having woken them up, but Bunny ducked back behind Sherlock and tried to hide behind him. 

“Bunny can’t sleep,” Sherlock said, shuffling forward when he realized Bunny was resolved to silence. “Can we sleep in here?”

Uncle Greg and Mycroft shared an amused look.

“Of course, boys,” Mycroft said, and Greg ushered them inside. 

Sherlock took a running leap onto the bed, but Bunny merely crawled up on the foot of his bed and then on his hands and knees until he was next to his Daddy, who pulled him close and kissed the top of his head. He could see Sherlock, next to him, making his alligator chomp on Uncle Greg’s ear. 

“That’s enough, buddy,” Uncle Greg said, but he was laughing, and Bunny knew he wasn’t mad when he pulled Sherlock close to him in a hug. Sherlock only squirmed away to get more comfortable, as it was tight quarters to fit four in the bed. Bunny felt safe and calm pressed between his Daddy and his big brother. 

Just before he fell asleep, however, John realized he had forgotten his blanket in the other room. He turned with concern to Sherlock, tugging on the boy’s pajama top. Sherlock groaned and tried to shoo him away, but when he realized that John was upset, he opened his eyes. Bunny could see him attempt to piece together what might be wrong with his little brother.

“Uncle Greg,” Sherlock said after a minute, “The baby needs his blanket.”

Sherlock seemed to realize his name calling just after he’d spoken, and he gasped and clapped a hand to his mouth. Uncle Greg chuckled and told him it was okay, he hadn't meant to call Bunny a baby. He stood up, patting him on the knee to calm his worries that he had been naughty. Bunny nuzzled into Sherlock’s shoulder to let him know he didn’t mind being called a baby just this once; he was simply grateful that Sherlock had known what he needed and that Greg had immediately pulled himself from bed to retrieve the bunny blanket. He was back a moment later, and Bunny hugged the blanket beneath his chin and rested his head on his Daddy’s chest.

“‘Night Mycroft, ‘night Bunny, ‘night Unlce Greg,” Sherlock said.

“Goodnight Sherlock,” both Mycroft and Greg said at once. Then, as if both sharing the same thought: “Goodnight Bunny.”

And despite the fact that they were four grown men sharing one bed, they fell asleep curled against each other, Mycroft and Greg protecting their boys from the darkness.


	19. Bleak and Silly Saturday Mornings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi lovelies!
> 
> Thanks for your support and wonderful comments on the last few chapters! I can't believe this story has almost reached over 50,000 words! You've all been such great supporters of my writing and this series, and I am very grateful.
> 
> This chapter is a mix of angst and fluff/cuteness. It does contain discussion of and some depiction of depression in the first half (the Mycroft/Sherlock section), so take care with reading if that is triggering for you. So many of you requested Sherlock slipping a bit younger in age, and it seemed to me that one way that might occur would be for him to be dealing with some angsty feelings. This chapter has the beginnings of him slipping younger, and I'll continue to explore that in the next chapter or two. It also has a good deal of discussion about wetting, which I know I use often--In the next few chapters, I'll try not to focus too much on that aspect as I have been, as I know it's not everyone's favorite thing. I just find it so cute so I sometimes can't help but include it! 
> 
> Let me know what you'd like to see during the boys' final day and a half at the lake house. I'm planning for three more chapters in this story, and then I'll be moving on to a new story in this series. I have some things planned (some of which have been requested in the past), but am always open to new ideas as well, either to include in this story or in future stories.
> 
> Very much hope you're all doing well!

When Mycroft woke up, it was to a brightening bedroom and a bed full of his boys. John was asleep pressed against his side, Sherlock’s pirate pacifier still somehow in his mouth despite John’s slack-jawed, deep sleep. Mycroft shifted carefully so as not to disturb the boy. When he sat up in bed and turned to pull John’s pajama shirt down from where it had ridden up to expose his belly, he found wide eyes from his other little boy turned to glance at him from behind dark curly hair. 

Sherlock was sitting up between Greg and John, hugging his knees to his chest. Mycroft could tell from his expression and somewhat disheveled state that his brother had been up for some time now, that he more than likely had been unable to sleep. It spoke to Sherlock’s state of mind that the boy had not left the room and gone back to his own bed despite being uncomfortable; Sherlock wouldn't have admitted it, but the boy must have needed the company of his caretakers last night just as much as John had. 

As Mycroft climbed gently out of bed, he put a finger to his lips to signal to Sherlock that they should be quiet to keep from waking Greg or John. Sherlock looked a bit pained when Mycroft stood at the end of the bed and gestured for Sherlock to crawl towards him, and when the boy eventually did move with a quiet moan, Mycroft could see why. There was a wet spot on the sheets below where Sherlock had been lying, and his pajama pants were wet from where his pull-up had leaked. 

Although it was no secret that Sherlock often wet himself, that he enjoyed holding his bladder and losing control, and that he chose to wet the bed and his pants whenever the whim struck him while in headspace, perhaps only Mycroft and Sherlock knew the man still struggled with real accidents. Sherlock quite often played off all his wet trousers--whether they happened in headspace or out--as intentional acts in order to guard himself against embarrassment and ridicule. He had long since learned to verbally degrade himself or laugh off what were deemed unacceptable actions before others could do it for him, but Mycroft knew better than to fall for Sherlock’s facades of bravado. 

It was clear from the darkness behind his little brother’s eyes, the apathetic haze that generally came with Sherlock’s bouts of depression, not only that Sherlock had wet the bed unintentionally, but that he was currently struggling against the self-loathing and self-doubt usually brought on by his accidents, emotions which took residence in the corners of Sherlock’s worst days. 

The good news was that, with Sherlock’s mind focused on weeding through the negativity, he would more than likely lack the energy needed to conjure up the energy it would take to lie to Mycroft about the accident. Mycroft hoped that, if Sherlock weren't putting on a false front, he would be able to read his mental and emotional state accurately, and would be able to put together a gameplan for helping Sherlock through what he suspected might be a fairly tough day for the boy. Although Sherlock was generally less susceptible to his anxiety when in littlespace, his bouts of depression came without provocation on a consistent basis. Ageplay helped, but Mycroft knew even headspace could not guard fully against the chemical imbalances. All Mycroft could do was monitor his brother and care for him as gently as possible.

“Come here, buddy,” Mycroft said, lifting Sherlock from the end of the bed and into his arms. 

The little detective squirmed for only a moment as Mycroft settled the boy’s weight and long limbs into a comfortable position on his hip. He had grown accustomed to carrying John and needed to readjust for his brother’s proportions. Sherlock hid his face against Mycroft’s neck, obviously ashamed, as Mycroft carried him down the hallway towards the boy’s bedroom. Sherlock's skin was a bit sweaty; it was clear Sherlock had been warm and uncomfortable for quite some time before Mycroft had woken up.

“There we go,” Mycroft said as he sat Sherlock onto the end of the bed in the green and blue bedroom. He kept from mentioning that Sherlock should have woken him up earlier, not wanting to encourage the boy in thinking he had acted incorrectly. “You’re okay, now.”

Sherlock was not crying and he was not fussing, but Mycroft could tell the boy’s countenance was low; his eyes were downcast and he was absently picking at the wet fabric against his inner thigh, preoccupied with his accident.

“No big deal, ‘Lock,” Mycroft said, kneeling down to Sherlock’s level. The boy flicked his eyes up towards Mycroft for only a moment before looking away again. 

When Sherlock was caught up in depressive states while still in little space, it generally meant the boy slipped a bit younger than usual, that he became disinterested in the mischief-making that so often brought him joy and mental stimulation. Mycroft had grown accustomed to all of Sherlock’s states and knew that Sherlock did not currently need affection and comfort; what he needed was help getting changed in order to get his mind off negative thoughts. 

Gathering clothes for what was promising to be a sunny, clear day, Mycroft wondered if the plan he and Greg had discussed last night--canoeing and swimming with the boys in the lake--would be possible given Sherlock’s current state of mind. He decided to deal with the day moment by moment; his first priority would be to ensure that Sherlock was okay.

“Stand up for me, bud,” Mycroft said, and Sherlock obeyed.

Mycroft undressed his brother quickly and wiped him down with baby wipes. He didn’t think Sherlock would take well to the suggestion of a bath; the boy had just been bathed the night before.

Sherlock looked up at Mycroft with confusion when he held out a pair of dinosaur briefs instead of a new pull-up.

“Rules,” Sherlock mumbled, referring to Mycroft’s rule of a pull-up after an accident.

“It’s a new day and you’re a big boy,” Mycroft said, caring more for his brother’s self-esteem at the moment than for upholding the household rules. The dinosaur briefs were training pants, reinforced with extra fabric in case of leaks, but Mycroft knew the boy still saw them as big boy undies, and that was what mattered.

Sherlock gave the briefest of smiles before stepping into the briefs and letting himself be dressed in shorts and a t-shirt. Mycroft retrieved Sherlock’s stuffed alligator and stuffed dinosaur from where Sherlock had left them in his bed last night--the boy had not been nearly as young last night, while caring for a regressed John, and thus had not brought them into the master bedroom.

Sherlock took his dinosaur in his arms, his oldest and most trusted stuffed friend. Mycroft told the boy to wait right where he was while he quickly returned to the master bedroom to find dry clothing, replacing his, which had grown wet from Sherlock’s trousers. He pulled on whatever was at hand for the time being; once Greg was awake and able to watch the boys Mycroft planned to shower and get himself dressed for the day.

“What say you and I head downstairs and make some breakfast while we let the sleepyheads rest?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock was unresponsive, but he did allow himself to be picked up into Mycroft’s arms once more. He slipped his thumb into his mouth, and Mycroft did not chastise; The boy was not currently in need of any scolding; Mycroft just hoped he wasn't dealing with his own negative criticisms.

\----

Greg awoke to the clattering of pots and pans from down in the kitchen. He stretched, allowing himself to take up more of the mattress than he had all night when he had been attempting to make room for the boys between him and Mycroft. His arm fell into a cold wet spot on the sheets, and he sat up, registering for the first time that Sherlock and Mycroft were absent, and must be the culprits making noise down in the kitchen. Sherlock must have wet the bed, and Mycroft must either have had an upset Sherlock to distract, or must not have wanted to disturb them, and thus had not yet changed the sheets. 

Greg yawned and forced himself awake, wanting to clean up in order to keep the mattress from any damage. He reached across the bed to brush the hair back from John’s forehead, wanting to wake the sleeping boy gently.

“Good morning, kiddo,” he said softly, and John stirred, tightening his lips around the borrowed pacifier in his mouth with a deep breath in, but keeping his eyes closed.

“C’mon, Bun,” Greg smiled, “Time to get up or you’ll sleep the whole day away.”

John turned over towards Greg and blinked awake. He looked sleepy and content, and tried to crawl closer to snuggle up to the man.

“Careful,” Greg said before John could crawl into the wet spot on the sheets.

John glanced down and noticed the stain, then, in confusion, reached a hand down to feel his pajama pants between his legs. Greg could not help but smile at the boy’s innocence.

“It wasn’t you, sweetheart,” he said with a soft laugh. He reached a hand out and patted the boy on the cheek. He really was adorable when he was like this. “But we should get these sheets changed, so you’ve got to get up. Why don’t you go brush your teeth and wash your face?”

“‘Kay, Uncle Greg,” Bunny said, climbing out of bed and trailing his stuffed lion behind him by the paw as he walked out of the bedroom and into the hallway. 

Greg stripped the bed quickly, pleased to see there was not too much of a stain on the mattress. The cleaner they had brought along just in case had already been used on the mattress in Sherlock’s bedroom that Bunny had wet during naptime the day before, and Greg found it quickly took care of the small stain on the master bedroom mattress as well. 

He balled up the sheets and carried them to the hallway bathroom, where he placed them into the washing machine and began the wash cycle.

John was standing on the childish stepstool over the sink, brushing with his Little Mermaid toothbrush. The pirate pacifier rested on the sink beside him. 

“That’s enough,” Greg said with a chuckle when John continued to brush vigorously far longer than was necessary. “Good boy. Now, spit.”

John obeyed, but Greg was a bit concerned to see blood in the sink mixed in with the toothpaste John had just spat out. 

“Rinse your mouth for me, bud,” Greg said, stepping closer and filling a small cup with water. 

John took a sip and swished it around his mouth before spitting it out into the sink.

“Okay, now open and let me see your mouth.”

John turned to face Greg, opening his mouth wide. Greg took hold of Bunny’s chin and peered into his mouth. He had suspected bleeding gums, but it was clear as soon as John opened his mouth that it was his tongue that was the problem, not his gums. Hour after hour of Bunny’s often aggressive sucking on a pacifier seemed to have irritated his tongue, and it had bled when he brushed it. 

Greg sighed.

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to take a bit of a break from your pacifier, little Bunny,” Greg said, patting the boy on the cheek to signal that he could close his mouth.

John’s face fell.

“I wasn’t bad, Uncle Greg,” he said. “Daddy said I can use it.”

Greg sighed. He hated seeing either one of his boys distressed, particularly when he was required to take away something that brought them comfort.

“You’ve done nothing wrong, kiddo,” he said, taking a seat on the edge of the bathtub and reaching for the boy until he was standing between his legs. “But your tongue has an owie on it from your pacifier. We need to give your tongue a bit of a break so it has time to heal.”

Bunny whined a bit and leaned forward to hide his face in Greg’s chest. Greg placed a hand on the back of the boy’s head to comfort him.

“Thumb?” Bunny asked, but his voice was timid, as if he already knew what Greg was going to say.

“I’m afraid not, bud.”

“I want it,” he whined, and Greg hugged him close. He knew how attached the boy had gotten to his pacifiers, and he suddenly thanked his lucky stars that he would never have to actually wean the boy from a pacifier the way he would with a biologically young child. 

“How about this?” Greg asked, pulling the boy gently away from his chest in order to look him in the eye. “If you can be a big boy all day and not use a pacifier or suck your thumb, you can have your paci back for storytime and bedtime. Does that sound okay?”

Bunny looked distressed for a moment, but, eventually, he seemed to resign himself to his fate. He sighed, then nodded. 

“Now, I think it’s time we go see what your brother and Daddy are up to, don’t you?” Greg asked, cheering the boy up by tickling him along the ribcage. John squealed with laughter and squirmed away from Greg, who cornered him and continued to tickle.

“Stop, Uncle Greg!” Bunny called, giggling. “I have to potty!” 

Greg stopped tickling and stepped aside to let the little one hurry to the toilet. He helped Bunny down with his pajamas and dry pull-up, and the boy took a seat and began to pee.

“Good boy,” Greg smiled when the boy gazed up at him with pride over the dry pull-up, seemingly just realizing he had not wet it during the night. 

John did not have the same type of bedwetting problems that Sherlock had; in fact, it was rather rare that John ever wet the bed, but the boy had certainly become preoccupied with using the potty lately, and his daytime accidents had increased in number; Greg and Mycroft had been speaking last night about potentially asking the boy if he wanted to be in pull-ups full time, as John seemed to take such comfort from them. 

They had been drinking whiskey after putting the boys to sleep, processing the events of the day and planning for the next. Mycroft’s exhaustion from his lack of sleep the night before as well as the alcohol had made him a bit cheeky, which had led him to tease Greg good-naturedly when Greg admitted he had suffered his own bedwetting problems as a child. Eventually, however, Greg had gotten Mycroft to focus back on the topic of conversation at hand. 

In the past, John had spoken to Mycroft with only uncertainty and confusion about wetting, but both Greg and Mycroft had begun to sense that John’s feelings were becoming a bit clearer to him over the course of their time at the lake house. Both Greg and Mycroft sensed that the boy wanted to regress a bit in the way of his toileting habits. That said, they had decided to keep an eye on Bunny for a day or two more before approaching him about his feelings towards pull-ups and his accidents, wanting to gather as much information as possible to ensure they were well informed. 

“What’s funny, Uncle Greg?” Bunny asked, and Greg realized he had been smirking as he remembered his boyfriend’s teasing and sloppy drunkenness the night before.

“Just thinking about how silly your Daddy is, sometimes, love,” he said.

Bunny laughed as he pulled up his pull-up and pajama trousers.

“Silly Daddy, silly Daddy,” he chanted in a sing-song, letting Greg help him wash his hands. “Silly Uncle Greg. Silly Sherlock.”

Bunny giggled, having made himself laugh.

“Alright, goofball,” Greg said, drying Bunny’s hands and bending down to let the boy climb onto him from the step stool for a piggyback ride. “Let’s go find your silly Daddy and your silly brother.”

“They’re in the silly kitchen,” Bunny nearly shouted, excited by his own extension of the game. “Making silly breakfast!”

Greg chuckled and patted the boy’s leg, grateful the day had begun on a happier note than the day before. He deposited the boy on the floor of the living room next to Sherlock, who was eating small bites of scrambled eggs from a kid’s plate set on the floor in front of him as he watched cartoons.

“Saturday morning cartoons?” Greg asked as he wandered into the kitchen and took a full plate from Mycroft, eyebrow raised. 

“He’s not in the best of spaces, right now,” Mycroft said. “We’ll need to be gentle with him today.”

Greg nodded and kissed Mycroft on the cheek as Mycroft crossed the living room with a plate of food for Bunny. He could see Mycroft’s worry in the half-distracted way he continued to watch Sherlock even while he kissed Bunny on the forehead to say good morning. Greg could see that Mycroft was only half-listening to Bunny as he explained about the owie on his tongue and how he was going to be a big boy and get paci back at bedtime and how Uncle Greg had called him silly Daddy. 

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, kiddo,” Greg said to Bunny as he walked into the living room to ruffle Sherlock’s hair and say good morning to the boy.

Sherlock did not turn away from the television. 

“Finish your breakfast and watch cartoons with your brother,” Greg said to Bunny as he placed a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder and addressed his boyfriend. “Sit in here on the couch, love. We can eat with the kids.”

Mycroft seemed relieved by Greg’s suggestion, and soon he and Greg were settled with their breakfast dishes and tea cups on the coffee table, close to their boys.


	20. Cartoons and Time-outs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your comments and kudos! This chapter checks off a few reader requests: Sherlock slipping younger and John in time-out. Hope you're all having a good day--sending bunny kisses!

Sherlock had known as soon as he opened his eyes that morning that it was going to be one of his bad days. They came consistently but without much warning, settling him into a form of hopelessness he had trouble navigating. If he had been back at Baker Street and not in headspace, he would have locked himself in his bedroom and tried to ride out his distress and apathy with the help of drugs or, on his worst days, self-harm. But he had not woken up at Baker Street, and he most certainly had not been in an adult headspace--it was fairly hard to consider aging up while lying in wet pajama trousers in bed with three other men. 

Mycroft had, over the years, helped Sherlock to develop coping mechanisms for when he was feeling depressed while in littlespace, mechanisms of self-care that were meant to be as far as possible from drugs or self-harm. But, that morning, Sherlock had not been in the mood to draw pictures of his feelings or to recite any positive affirmations or to go for a walk outside. He’d been up nearly the entire night, unable to find a comfortable spot in the bed squeezed between Bunny and Uncle Greg yet too desperate for company to retreat back to his own bedroom. He didn’t have the energy for much of anything. 

Luckily, Mycroft had been as perceptive as ever. Morning cartoons may just be the perfect way for Sherlock to distract himself.

He took small bites of his breakfast because he knew Mycroft was watching. He wasn’t hungry, but it was rare that Mycroft let them watch telly this early in the day, and Sherlock didn’t want to press his luck. He ate with his fingers so he didn’t have to take his eyes from the screen. He knew there were small bits of scrambled egg and fruit on his hands and probably on his t-shirt, but he didn’t care enough to brush them away. He felt younger than he had last night, half-conscious of the way he might look to Bunny and Uncle Greg but too exhausted and apathetic to care too much about what anyone thought.

Mycroft had noticed it too, Sherlock’s younger headspace.

“You can slip down as young as you’d like, bud,” he’d said while carrying Sherlock downstairs. “I’ll be here for you. I’m not going anywhere and Bunny and Uncle Greg love you no matter what, okay?”

Sherlock had shrugged, but Mycroft’s words had in fact calmed him. He’d been younger around Mycroft in the past--hell, he’d been just about every age around Mycroft--but never before when he was around Bunny or Uncle Greg. He had been a bit worried they’d think of him differently if he let himself slip. His mind was struggling to stay in his big kid mindset out of fear that they would judge him. But Mycroft had been smiling at him as if everything would be okay, and for once Sherlock felt that, just maybe, he didn’t have to fight so hard.

“He’s the bad guy,” Sherlock mumbled around his sticky fingers, nodding his chin towards the screen of the telly when John sat down next to him with his own breakfast. 

“Is he going to win?” Bunny asked, fork paused halfway to his mouth as he watched intently, concerned when the evil forces seemed to be gaining ground on the hero. 

Bunny was clearly as invested in the rare opportunity to watch cartoons as Sherlock was, and it was nice to have someone to watch with. 

“He never wins,” Sherlock said, and Bunny sighed a relieved, “good.”

Sherlock whined in the back of his throat when Mycroft appeared beside him to wipe down his sticky face and hands with a wet cloth, pulling his face away from his brother while doing all he could to keep his gaze on the telly. Mycroft chuckled softly as he persisted, and soon Sherlock gave in to his brother’s administrations with one final whine, just to get it over with.

“Uncle Greg is heading to the store to pick up a few things,” he said once Sherlock was free of the horrible washcloth. “He thought you might like to go with him, Bunny.”

Sherlock glanced over to Bunny, who had turned away from the cartoons and was looking up at Mycroft with something between longing and fear. Sherlock knew Bunny rarely left the house while in headspace. He also knew the man was far less of a homebody than was Sherlock, and it was likely he was going a bit stir-crazy after so many days at the lake house.

“Don’t want to be big,” Bunny said tentatively, testing the parameters of the trip.

Mycroft nodded. 

“Uncle Greg and I don’t want you to be anything but what you want to be,” he said with a smile.

“Remember, this isn’t London, kiddo,” Uncle Greg said as he entered the living room and came up behind them. “Not as many people out and about. Also, less chance of running into anyone you know.”

Sherlock's was about to say that, statistically, the chances of running into someone you knew in a small town of minimal population were actually greater than running into someone you knew among the millions of residents of London, but his brain was moving faster than he wanted it to, so instead he tried to calm it by watching as Bunny contemplated. Besides, it was clear Bunny was deciding between following his instincts and go or letting himself be stifled by the fear of being found out and staying. Sherlock's statistics lesson would not help Bunny give in to what he could see he really wanted. 

Sherlock figured this had probably been a plan of Mycroft’s all along. Sherlock was used to Mycroft trying to teach him new things while he was little; his brother was always attempting to use littlespace to broaden his horizons. It had actually been on a short trip away from the city years and years ago that Mycroft had first gotten Sherlock out of the house while in headspace. They had gone to the grocery store, and Mycroft had been so supportive and discreet that after that trip Sherlock had been progressively more comfortable being little in public. 

None of the men were fans of exhibitionism. Any littleness or caretaking was kept as private as possible. So Sherlock knew that John had nothing to worry about. It was like Mycroft to want to use the weekend away to get John more comfortable in his headspace, and he knew Uncle Greg would know the best ways to help John through any anxiety that might come up from the new experience. But Sherlock knew John hadn’t had the best track record with being little in public. Apart from the quick stop into the rest area on their drive up from London, he had last been little at the zoo, which had not exactly been a trip where he had remained inconspicuous.

Despite what must have been doubt and worry, Bunny nodded his head.

“I want to go with Uncle Greg,” he said softly.

“Good boy,” Mycroft praised, and he took Sherlock’s breakfast dishes and the now dirty washcloth into the kitchen as Uncle Greg told Bunny they’d have a wonderful time. 

“Okay, kiddo,” Uncle Greg said. “Finish your breakfast, then we’ll head on upstairs and get you changed outta your jammies before we’re on our way.”

Sherlock had turned back to cartoons after accepting the pacifier and his stuffed alligator, both of which Mycroft had held out to him sometime during their conversation with Bunny. His alligator had been given to him as a consolation for Mycroft taking away Dmitri the dinosaur, who had gotten a bit worse for wear during Sherlock's messy eating. Sherlock stopped his whining only when Mycroft assured him Dmitri would be back in no time, and he returned his attention to the telly. But his focus was pulled away once more when Bunny next spoke.

“No.”

It wasn’t like Bunny to argue, and Sherlock glanced back at Uncle Greg to see how he would react. Uncle Greg looked more confused than angry.

“You don’t want to come to the store?” he asked, and Bunny shook his head.

“I wanna come,” Bunny said, his voice far closer to defiance than usual. “But I wanna wear jammies.”

There was a moment where both Uncle Greg and Sherlock assessed John’s current wardrobe. He was wearing his second favorite pair of pajamas. They were not quite as babyish as his bunny pajamas--his favorite--but they were yellow and green and covered in lions like his favorite stuffed animal. They were certainly not unobtrusive. 

“Hon, I don’t think it’s the best idea to go to the store in your pjs,” Uncle Greg said, his voice gentle, the way it got when Sherlock was angry and they didn’t want him to throw a fit. “But, as soon as we get back, you can wear whatever you’d like, alright?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened when John refused again. 

“No. I wanna wear jammies,” he said, voice firm. 

Mycroft had re-entered the living room at this point with a wiped down Dmitri the dinosaur, which Sherlock reached for immediately. 

Mycroft and Uncle Greg were both looking at Bunny as if lost in confusion. It was rare that Bunny put on any acts of defiance; he was their sweet, compliant boy. But Sherlock wasn't confused at all; why couldn’t they see what was wrong? It was as obvious as anything to Sherlock.

“Bun, jammies are not an option outside of the house,” Mycroft said. “Besides, it’s too warm outside for long sleeves, silly goose.”

Attempted lightheartedness, a ploy used to shift the tone away from misbehavior and anger. Sherlock had experienced it first-hand from his brother. It didn’t work on him, and Sherlock could see that, although it had worked to keep Bunny from getting upset in the past, it would not work on the bunny now.

“I don't care! I want them!” John yelled, finally reaching his breaking point and beginning to cry. He threw his breakfast fork across the room out of what Sherlock knew was, more than anything, frustration at not being able to explain what was really bothering him. The fork hit against the wall and tumbled to the floor, bits of scrambled egg scattering across the carpet. 

Mycroft was between Sherlock and Bunny in an instant, and he took Bunny by the arm and yanked him to a standing position.

“We do not throw things in this house,” he said in the voice he used which meant you were in trouble, calm but dark. “You’re in time-out.”

The fight had gone out of John--Sherlock was surprised he had kept it up for so long while in headspace, which he used as an escape from his anger issues--and he became teary as he let himself be led to the corner in the kitchen they had dubbed the time-out spot. His body was limp and boneless; he had given in to being manipulated solely by Mycroft, who eventually got him into place in the corner. As soon as John was in time-out, he sunk to the ground, put his face in his hands, and cried. 

Sherlock watched Mycroft and Uncle Greg share a look. 

Had they really not realized what was wrong with the Bunny? Didn’t they see he wasn’t actually trying to be naughty?

“He’s afraid,” Sherlock said as Mycroft cleared John’s breakfast dishes beside him and began cleaning up the scattered bits of egg from the carpet.

Mycroft paused in his task to glance up at Sherlock.

“What’s that, bud?” he asked, obviously still distracted by Bunny’s abnormal behavior. Uncle Greg had gone to wash up the dishes in the kitchen and to keep an eye on the bunny. 

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at a snivelling John and then turned back to Mycroft. He took his pacifier out of his mouth and scooted closer to his older brother, not wanting to hurt his little brother’s feelings by speaking out of turn but knowing he just wanted Bunny to be happy again. Bunny’s sadness was making Sherlock sadder.

“Bunny doesn’t want to wear big boy clothes because he might have a wee in his pants, and everyone would know,” Sherlock whispered.

Sherlock knew his brother understood by the way his expression softened. The last time Bunny had been out in public, he’d been at the zoo and he’d wet his pants. Right now, Bunny was dressed in pajamas, but he was also dressed in a pull-up; any embarrassment he would feel from others looking at him dressed in little boy pjs paled in comparison to the idea of the shame he would feel if he was asked to change out of his pull-up and into big boy undies and then had another accident. Bunny hadn't really been asking to wear his pajamas to the store; he had been asking to wear a pull-up. 

Mycroft leaned over and kissed Sherlock on the forehead.

“You’re such a smart boy,” he said, and Sherlock did not squirm away. In fact, he was eager for his brother’s attention; he did not want to be alone. He raised his arms towards Mycroft, who held out Sherlock’s pacifier before signalling for him to wait one moment. Sherlock was left alone while Mycroft brought the last of the breakfast plates, utensils, and napkins used for clean-up into the kitchen, and then Mycroft was lifting him into his arms and carrying him to the kitchen, where they sat at the table. Sherlock rested his cheek on Mycroft’s shoulder.

“Come here, Bunny,” Mycroft said once the timer had gone off, ending John’s punishment. 

John shuffled to where Mycroft was sitting. Mycroft’s arms were in use, so he hooked the leg of another kitchen chair with his foot and pulled it out from the table until it was positioned across from where he sat holding Sherlock. Bunny scrubbed with his fists at red-rimmed eyes as he took a seat. Mycroft hooked his feet on either side of the chair and pulled it and John closer to him, spreading his own legs so John was as close as possible.

“What do you have to say for yourself, Bun?” Mycroft asked. Sherlock knew Mycroft’s disciplinarian voice would not go away until after apologies.

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” John said, eyes watering once more. “I’m sorry for arguing back and for throwing my fork and making a mess.”

Mycroft told him he was a good boy. “We don’t throw things, because we might hurt someone,” he explained. “There are better ways to deal with our feelings than to act out.”

Sherlock squirmed a bit in Mycroft’s arms, the words hitting a bit too close to home. He’d been told the same thing after punishment far too often. But Mycroft patted him on the thigh and Uncle Greg ruffled his hair as he came to stand behind them, and he settled.

“I’m sorry, Uncle Greg,” Bunny said, looking up towards the man. 

“I forgive you, champ,” he said, coming around to crouch down beside John for a hug. 

“Now, do you want to tell us what this is really about, lovebug?” Mycroft prompted as Uncle Greg took a step back.

Bunny looked distressed, and once again hid his face in his hands with a whine. 

“Bunny, we can’t help you unless you’re honest with us,” Uncle Greg told him. 

Sherlock could sense that Bunny needed comfort in the moment, so he held his stuffed alligator--which had been in his arm along with his dinosaur--towards his brother. Bunny took it with gratitude, hugging it close, and Mycroft patted Sherlock again on the thigh to signal a job well done. Sherlock did his best to accept the praise, fighting against the desire to squirm out of Mycroft’s lap. He needed to focus on what felt nice, not on what the voice in his brain told him was needy behavior. 

“Are you worried about what happened when you went to the zoo?” Mycroft asked, able to prompt him now that Sherlock had helped him understand where Bunny’s mind had settled. 

Bunny nodded immediately, cheeks reddening. Uncle Greg seemed to catch on to what the others already knew, clucking his tongue in understanding.

“Honey,” Uncle Greg said. “You can wear a pull-up to the store if that will make you more comfortable.”

“But I have to be a big boy,” Bunny said, glancing down at Sherlock’s alligator in his lap, running his finger around and around the plastic eyeball. 

“You can be as big or as little as you’d like,” Mycroft said, and Sherlock knew the comment was not just for John. “It’s for the best if you wear big boy clothes when you go to the store. But what you’d like to wear underneath is your decision.”

Bunny spent a moment longer running his finger along the seam of the alligator’s snout before he glanced up and said, “Pull-ups, please.”

“Pull-ups are okay by me,” Mycroft smiled, and Uncle Greg ruffled his hair to signal his own agreement.

“It’s settled then,” Uncle Greg said with a smile as he lifted John into his arms. “Let’s go get you dressed for the day.” Bunny accepted the cuddle, burrowing his face against Greg’s neck as he was lifted from the chair. 

“Thanks, ‘Lockie,” Bunny said after a moment, draping an arm over Greg’s shoulder and letting the alligator hang from his hand so Sherlock could reach up for him. Sherlock took his alligator back and pressed it beneath his neck, next to Dmitri. He was too comfortable and sleepy against Mycroft’s chest to speak. 

“Seems like someone will be ready for a nap, today,” Uncle Greg said, and Sherlock could not even muster the energy to sit up and prove him wrong.

“No nap,” he said half-heartedly. “Not a baby.” 

Bunny became impatient, pulling on Greg’s shirt and telling him they had to get to the store before all the good things were bought up. Uncle Greg chuckled and obeyed, taking off with a bit of a jump to make Bunny laugh. 

“Good boy, 'Lock?” Mycroft said when he was alone in the kitchen with Sherlock.

Sherlock did not respond. He was content to rest on his brother’s lap with his eyes closed, cuddling his stuffed animals and sucking his pirate pacifier. 

After some quiet time, Sherlock heard John come barreling back into the kitchen. Sherlock could sense even though his eyes had fallen closed long minutes before that Bunny paused in his stampeding run when he saw that Sherlock was half-asleep. 

"Is Sherlock the little brother, today, Daddy?" Bunny whispered, having approached. 

"He's feeling pretty little, love," Mycroft said, his voice a quiet hum where Sherlock's ear was pressed against his chest. "Do you think you can help take care of him, today?" 

Bunny must have nodded, because Mycroft called him a good boy and then Bunny gasped and ran back upstairs. His pattering footsteps returned only a moment later, and Sherlock heard voices once more.

"It's good for when you're feeling really little," Bunny whispered, and Sherlock felt something draped over his shoulders which he knew must be John's baby blanket. 

"Thank you, sweet boy," Mycroft said. 

Sherlock could still feel the darkness whispering in his mind, the negative and even hopeless thoughts waiting in the wings that always came with his bad days. But, for the moment, he knew as he fell into a deep sleep that he was safe from the loneliness. And that went a long way towards making him feel as if, in time, everything might feel okay again.


	21. The Little Princess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been way too long since I've updated! Thank you all, as always, for the wonderfully kind comments you left on the last chapter. I hope you enjoy this chapter as well--it's basically a cycle of angst, comfort, and then angst again :) Warning for brief mention of diapers. Littler-than-usual little Sherlock will be back in the next chapter.
> 
> Wishing you all well!

Greg pulled into the parking lot at the big-box store, mentally reviewing the list of items Mycroft had asked him to get. Bunny sat in the back seat, humming along to the children’s radio station that Sherlock never let them listen to without putting up a fight. When he glanced in the rear-view mirror, he saw Bunny bouncing along to the music, mouthing the words as he scribbled into his mermaid coloring book. It had been close to a forty-five minute drive, but the boy had behaved himself the entire time, the opposite of the defiant kid he’d been earlier that morning. 

“Ready to head inside, buddy?” Greg asked.

Bunny, glancing up from his coloring book to peer out the window, smiled wide as he seemed to realize for the first time that they’d arrived at the store. He nodded and began quickly stuffing crayons back into the box, squirming against the seat belt as he reached a hand to unbuckle himself. 

Greg chuckled and, after putting the car in park and turning off the ignition, stepped out of the driver’s seat and around to the back. He pulled open the door where John was seated and helped the boy undo the seat belt he’d been struggling with.

“Let’s chat for a minute before we go inside, alright?” Greg said, placing a hand on Bunny’s shoulder to pause the boy in his attempt to scramble out of the car.

Greg almost regretted having to set some ground rules with Bunny. A moment ago, the boy had been pure excitement and joy; as soon as Greg mentioned chatting, he’d glanced towards the ground and lost his previous sense of careless anticipation.

“‘I gotta be big?” he asked, peeping up at Greg, worried.

Greg sighed. He wished his boys had the freedom to act the way they wanted at all times. But there were precautions he needed to take to save John’s pride and emotional well-being when they were out in public. 

“No, honey,” he said. “You don’t need to be big. But there may be people in the store who aren’t used to anyone who is different than them, and sometimes that can make them act rude when they see something they don’t understand.”

“They don’t know any better,” Bunny mumbled, and Greg smiled down at him. 

“Exactly, sweet boy,” he said. “You can act however you’d like. You know your Daddy and I love you and your brother Sherlock loves you, and that’s all that matters. But, when we’re around other people, there’s the danger of them watching and judging. Do you understand?”

Bunny nodded. Greg could tell by the way they boy’s thumb began gravitating towards his mouth that the conversation had made him nervous. He hated having to stifle the kids, and he wished there were some way to prepare them for being out in public while in headspace without underhandedly encouraging them to stay quieter and more inconspicuous than usual. But people could be cruel, and the last thing he wanted was to see his boys mistreated. 

“Remember,” Greg said, guiding Bunny’s thumb away from his mouth by gently pulling at his wrist. “Your tongue has an owie on it. No sucking until bedtime.”

It was almost a blessing in disguise; Greg would rather discourage the boy from sucking his thumb or pacifier because he didn't want to further aggravate the sore on his tongue than because he didn't want close-minded people to stare, point, or tease.

Bunny nodded, distractedly, and held out his arms. Greg lifted the boy from the car and hugged him close, knowing he needed a bit of comfort to calm the nerve he was now feeling. 

“Can you do me a favor, Bun?” Greg asked. He had set the boy down onto the pavement of the parking lot after giving him one last squeeze.

The kid glanced up at him tentatively.

“I need someone to help me pick out a little surprise for Sherlock to cheer him up today. Do you think you could help me out with that?”

If there was one thing John had practice at, it was doing things to please Sherlock. Greg disliked that the man often did things for Sherlock at the expense of his own needs, and he and Mycroft had been slowly working on that with the kid, but, for now, it gave him an excuse to cheer his boy up, and he would take it. 

Greg could not help but ruffle Bunny’s hair when he smiled wide and nodded emphatically; John looked too cute when he wanted to please. 

“Thanks, kid,” he said. “I knew you’d be the best boy for the job. But I also need someone to pick out a special surprise for Sherlock’s brother, Bunny. Do you know anyone who might be right for that job?”

Bunny giggled, then pointed to the middle of his chest.

“You, again?” Greg asked, feigning surprise. “Wow, Bun. I guess I lucked out when I chose you to come to the store with me, didn’t I?”

The boy giggled and ducked his head, characteristically shy when accepting praise or encouragement. 

When Greg closed the car door and began leading them inside, Bunny slipped his hand into Greg’s, and Greg gave it a squeeze. The store was fairly empty for a late Saturday morning, which Greg could sense calmed John immensely. He grabbed a trolley, and John followed close beside.

Greg knew he could grab what they needed and be out of the store in twenty or thirty minutes, but he also knew John could benefit not only from the experience in public while little, but also from the time outside of the lake house, which had, over the course of the weekend, definitely become a space where Sherlock’s needs had been put first. Greg wanted John to feel cared for and looked after as well, and that meant it would be beneficial to take some alone time with the boy. 

It was while they were passing through the children’s clothing section that Greg first noticed Bunny paying extra attention to an item they were passing. He slowed his pace and followed Bunny’s gaze to a nightgown in the girl’s section, pink and blue with a bunny on the front. Of course. 

Bunny seemed not to notice when they stopped walking altogether. Greg bent down to the boy. Although Mycroft argued, Greg felt the boys had far too few toys and items for when they were little; it wasn’t often he got the opportunity to spoil them. 

“Want to go take a look?” he asked, and Bunny seemed surprised that he’d been found out. He blushed and shook his head.

“It’s for girls,” he mumbled, turning away. 

It was no secret that Bunny showed an affinity for stereotypically feminine items while in headspace. Greg found it adorable, although Mycroft worried that it suggested John still felt uncomfortable ageplaying, and thus felt less guilt when he could separate his adult side from his little side as fully as possible. Because of this, Mycroft was a bit conflicted about encouraging the behavior in John, wanting to instead work on getting John to accept his little self without having to rely so heavily on the more-feminine Bunny alter-ego. Greg did not share any of his boyfriend’s qualms. Even if John was attempting to calm his own guilt by cultivating Bunny instead of a little version of Dr. Watson, he would rather the man be happy in littlespace than challenged and overwrought with worry. Who was to say butterflies and bunnies were more girly than boyish, anyway? As far as Greg was concerned, the distinctions were meaningless. John already overthought far too much; if he was youngest and happiest wearing a girl’s nightgown, Greg would happily buy him a girl’s nightgown.

“It’s for anyone who likes it,” he said, and Bunny looked up at him as if gauging how truthful the statement really was before glancing back towards the row of clothing.

“I’m not sure they have that one in your size,” he said, nodding towards the nightgown in the girls’ section, “But let’s say we see what they have that would fit, okay?”

Bunny seemed not to hear as he was led away, his eyes lingering on the bunny nightgown even as they walked towards the women’s section. Greg just prayed there would be something Bunny liked in a large enough size for him. 

They were in luck; the women’s pajamas section seemed just as preoccupied with bright colors and cartoon characters as was the girls’ section. For once, Greg felt grateful for nostalgia marketing and society’s preoccupation with infantilizing women. Bunny wandered, eyes on the floor except for furtive glances up at the items in the section. It was only once Greg found an oversized sleep shirt with Ariel and Flounder from The Little Mermaid on the front that Bunny seemed to forget his self-consciousness.

“How about this, kiddo?” Greg asked, holding up the sleep shirt in a size he knew would fit John. 

Bunny’s eyes widened and he could not hide his happiness. He smiled and reached for the nightgown, pulling it to his chest in a hug.

“Ariel,” he said, and Greg, seeing the sheer joy and comfort the item brought to the boy, vowed to stop entertaining Mycroft’s hesitancy to encourage Bunny’s love for traditionally little-girl things.

But Bunny paused, and suddenly looked uncertain.

“Sherlock won’t like it,” he said, voice quiet and worried.

Greg sighed. While Mycroft had been sensitive enough to mask any concern he felt towards this aspect of Bunny’s personality, Sherlock had certainly not done a very good job of hiding his feelings. And while both Mycroft and Greg were stern in upholding rules against teasing, even seeing Sherlock punished could not erase the words from Bunny’s mind or repair the self-consciousness they made him feel.

“Listen to me, bud,” Greg said, waiting for the boy to look up at him before he continued. “There is nothing wrong with wanting to wear an Ariel nightgown, or wanting to play with bunnies, or wanting to color pictures of unicorns and mermaids. It’s the same as Sherlock wanting to dress up in his pirate shirt and play with dinosaurs.”

“But I’m a boy,” Bunny said, and Greg was shocked to see the kid’s eyes welling up with tears. 

It was clear they needed to take stronger action to encourage Bunny in his interests. This was not only something the boy wanted. Greg could see now that it was more than that, that, on some level, it was what he needed.

“Yes,” he said. “You’re a boy who likes mermaids and bunnies and unicorns. Just like there are girls who like pirates and cars and dinosaurs.”

Bunny sniffled and knuckled a tear from his eye before it could fall. 

“Do you remember how we talked earlier about people acting rude because they didn’t understand something?” Greg asked.

Greg waited for Bunny to nod before he continued.

“Sherlock doesn’t quite understand why you like the things you do, because close-minded people have told him those things are not for boys. But, guess what?”

The kid glanced up at him after rubbing at his eyes again. Greg guided his thumb away from his mouth, where it was once again hovering, by taking John's hand in his own.

“They're wrong. It would be wrong of us to tell Sherlock he shouldn’t like pirates, just as it’s wrong of Sherlock to tell you you shouldn’t like The Little Mermaid. We like what we like, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Understand?”

Bunny was still sniffling, but he did seem a bit less upset and worried. He nodded and seemed to gain back a weak smile when Greg put the Ariel nightgown into the trolley.

“Now, we’ve got more shopping to do, don’t we, princess?” Greg asked. 

When Bunny stilled and stared up at him, Greg worried he’d gone too far. He’d wanted to encourage John, to show him it was all okay, that he could be Mycroft and Greg’s little princess if that was what he wanted, but it may have been too much too soon. John had almost broken down over a girl’s nightgown; it was foolish of Greg to think he was ready for that feminine of an endearment.

But Greg breathed a sigh of relief when Bunny grinned wide. The boy actually giggled, no longer in danger of breaking down into full-blown tears.

“You like that, princess?” he clarified, and Bunny nodded. He circled Greg with his arms, hugging him close.

“Thank you, Uncle Greg,” he said into Greg’s chest.

Greg hugged him back, and he soon had a content boy by his side once more. They wandered through the food section to pick up what Mycroft had requested, spent some time in the toy section where Bunny finally decided on two toys for Sherlock: a dinosaur baby book for while he was feeling little and a new pirate-ship Lego set for when he was feeling like a big boy again. Bunny was amazed to hear that his nightgown did not count as his surprise, and quickly picked out a paper doll set for himself that he’d been lusting after while wandering to find the right toys for Sherlock. Greg knew they wouldn’t make it out of the toy section with only three toys, and he couldn’t help but place the soft, floppy bunny plush that John kept gravitating towards into the cart along with a red, long-necked dinosaur plush toy that Bunny said would be a perfect friend for Sherlock’s current dinosaur, Dimitri. 

By the time they were out of the toy section, Greg could see the boy was tiring. The boy hadn’t finished his breakfast that morning given his trip to time-out and then the rush to get to the store. It was likely he was hungry for lunch, and getting ready, as had become routine, for his early afternoon nap. Greg told the kid that they had just one more thing to pick up, and led them to the pharmacy section.

Mycroft had sent Greg to the store with the express purpose of picking up diapers for Sherlock. Although Greg had never seen Sherlock slip younger than his usual five years old, Mycroft had explained that, although it hadn’t yet happened in the presence of John and Greg, there were still periodic nights when Sherlock came to Mycroft younger and more vulnerable than usual, when he settled down to an age of two or three years old. It was good for him, Mycroft explained, and he wished Sherlock would allow himself to give in to the younger headspace more often. 

When Sherlock was as young as he was that morning, Mycroft had told Greg while the boys watched cartoons in the living room, he couldn’t be expected to pay attention to his bladder, and pull-ups were not enough to keep him from accidents. 

Greg found the right brand and size of diapers, and placed them into the cart along with the rest of the items. Mycroft had also suggested picking up some new pull-ups for Bunny, given their suspicion that the boy wanted to wear them more frequently. Greg reached for the same package of Goodnights they generally bought, in boys’ xl. But his eye caught on the girls’ version next to them on the shelf, and he instead reached for the pink packaging. He turned to show them to Bunny, expecting the kid to be smiling once more at the thought of butterflies and flowers instead of the stripes and camouflage patterns he usually wore on his pull-ups. 

But the boy was not in the aisle.

Greg dropped the pull-ups into the trolley and took off quickly, turning the corner to check the next aisle. It was empty except for a woman scanning through different brands of shampoo.

“John?” Greg called, feeling his heart rate accelerating. It was one thing to lose track of a friend in a store. It was another thing entirely to lose a friend who spent large expanses of time role playing as your child.

How could Greg have lost him? He was sure the boy had been beside him just a moment before, remembered the way he had run his hand along the fur of his new bunny while Greg had looked for Sherlock’s diapers. Then again, maybe that had been as they left the toy section? Was he even certain John had been with him as they came to the pharmacy aisles? One thing was for sure: Mycroft was going to kill him.

Greg hurriedly checked each of the surrounding aisles, calling John’s name with as much nonchalance as he could. He didn’t need overbearing store employees to swarm down on him asking if he’d lost a child, because he wasn’t sure how he would even answer such an inquiry, and he didn’t want to scare John in case the boy was worried he’d be in trouble. Both boys knew they were never to wander off when they were little and not in a safe space.

When he had no luck in the pharmacy aisle, he made his way back towards the toy section, glancing down each aisle in turn while attempting to calm his fraying nerves. He should never have taken his eye off him; he should never have let go of his hand. 

He found his kid in the farthest aisle of the toy section, surrounded by super hero action figures and plastic army men, toys Bunny generally steered far clear of. 

“John,” Greg said, rushing towards the man.

Greg could see that something had upset his kid. He was hunched with his hands in his pockets, and he did not even glance up at Greg’s worried questioning.

“Are you okay? What happened?” Greg asked, and then, when his fear was replaced by a touch of anger when the kid only shrugged and continued to look at the toys on the shelves: “What do we say about wandering off? I was worried sick.”

Bunny shrugged again. 

Greg knew he would need to get to the bottom of the situation, but standing in the toy aisle of a store, in earshot of strangers, was not exactly the ideal place to do so, particularly given John’s tendency towards moodiness when hungry, and the fit he had thrown earlier that morning.

“We’ll talk about this later. Let’s go,” he said, taking Bunny by the hand and beginning to guide them towards the checkout lanes.

But Bunny yanked his hand from Greg’s grasp and crossed his arms over his chest.

“You will hold my hand or you will hold onto the side of the cart,” Greg said, voice low but firm. “Otherwise, we’ll stand here all day.”

The kid glared at him with a contempt Greg was far more accustomed to from an irritated Sherlock than from his usually mild-mannered Bunny. He stomped in place but then grasped onto the edge of the cart, and Greg considered that a win. As soon as they reached the checkout, however, John released the cart and stormed through the lane to throw himself down onto a bench near the exit of the store. Greg knew he could not go after him without causing a scene, and he could keep an eye on the kid from where a woman was beginning to scan his items, so he vowed to get out of there as quickly as possible, where he would be better able to deal with Bunny. He hoped anyone who’d seen John storming away from him simply thought they were having a little domestic dispute. Thankfully, the checkout woman said nothing as she scanned the items and told Greg his total. 

“You’re getting a punishment as soon as we’re home,” Greg said, grasping the bags in one hand and John’s upper arm in the other as he dragged the man out of the store and towards the car. “Definitely time-out, Possibly worse.” 

Greg disliked spanking the boys, but he knew even Bunny’s inevitable puppy-dog eyes and tearful apologies would more than likely not be enough to convince Mycroft that wandering away in the store did not warrant a spanking. 

“I don’t care, I don't care, I don't care!” Bunny yelled defiantly as he, despite his struggling, was put into the back seat and buckled in. “You’re mean.”

Greg slammed the door shut and circled around to place the shopping bags into the trunk. By the time he had taken his own seat on the driver’s side, Bunny was crying in the back seat, his thumb in his mouth. 

“Take your thumb out of your mouth,” Greg ordered, his voice harsher than usual. 

He knew the boy needed comforting, but, after the fear of losing his kid had been followed not by apologies, but by acts of defiance, Greg’s emotions were too volatile to soothe or coddle. He just needed to focus on getting the kid home, getting him punished and fed, and getting him down for a nap. Maybe when he woke up and Greg had been able to decompress by processing the situation with Mycroft, he'd be able to have a rational chat with his little princess.


	22. Meltdowns and Misunderstandings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember a few chapters back, when I said I would probably finish up this story in 2 or 3 chapters? Well, we're 2 or 3 chapters later and we've still got a bit more to cover of the weekend, so expect at least a few more chapters before this one is wrapped up and a new story in the series begins.
> 
> You're all so wonderfully sweet with your comments. I was nervous about exploring John's feminine side in the last chapter, as I know it can be a bit of a polarizing topic, but I'm truly blessed with open-minded and accepting readers, so I don't know what I was worried about! Thank you all for being such non-judgmental humans. The world needs more people like you!
> 
> This chapter is LONG, and I'm not entirely happy with it, so I may come back to edit a bit after re-reading. I thought about splitting it into two, but it's all in Mycroft's perspective, so it seems to make the most sense to keep it all together. Warnings for more tears than I've probably ever written into one chapter.
> 
> Wishing you all well--sending bunny kisses!

Mycroft was pleased to find himself in the midst of a calm moment at the lake house. Sherlock had fallen into a light sleep at the kitchen table where he sat in Mycroft’s lap, and Mycroft, knowing Sherlock must not have slept for longer than fleeting stretches of time the night before, was hopeful that once John and Greg had left to run their errands, he could get Sherlock back to bed for some much needed sleep. 

Sherlock’s depression often made him lethargic, and sometimes that led to Sherlock spending entire days in a darkened room. Mycroft did not always find that bed was the best place for Sherlock on his toughest days, as it did not provide any distraction from his hopeless and often destructive thoughts, but he knew that, in his current state, Sherlock could definitely use some time to catch up on sleep. He'd let his brother sleep for a bit while John and Greg were out of the house, and then wake him before lunch. 

As soon as Sherlock was carried upstairs and placed onto his bed, however, his eyes fluttered open in confusion, and, seeing that he was no longer being held, he began to cry. Mycroft shushed him and quickly gathered Sherlock back into his arms, but after such a jarring wake-up, Mycroft knew that any attempt to get Sherlock back to sleep would prove futile.

“You’re okay, string bean,” Mycroft said. 

Sherlock tended to glare and even become angry when Mycroft used pet names. He’d grown to put up with “buddy,” “kiddo,” or “‘Lock,” when they were ageplaying, the terms Mycroft had used even when they were children, but, unlike John, who could not get enough of cutesy names, Sherlock’s desire to be a big kid kept him from accepting anything he deemed too babyish. When he sunk this little, however, Sherlock was too wrapped up in his desire for comfort to worry about what he was called, and Mycroft could not help but take advantage of the opportunity to coddle and love. It was generally the only time Sherlock accepted affection. Mycroft had called Sherlock "string bean" when they were kids as a form of teasing, especially during the boy's most awkward growth-spurts. But, over the years, it had become an endearment.

“Okay, okay. I’m not going anywhere,” Mycroft said, rubbing Sherlock’s back as he took a seat on the bed, cradling his brother as comfortably as he could given Sherlock’s long limbs. 

Because he knew they were alone in the house, that Greg would not be back with John for at least another two hours given the drive and the shopping time, Mycroft began to sing. Mycroft only half-remembered the lyrics of the old lullaby, and hummed the melody whenever he came to a section of words he’d long ago forgotten. But he had never found anything quite as effective at calming his brother, and Sherlock never seemed to mind that the song was a hodgepodge of remembered words and Mycroft’s improvisation. 

“Today’s a hard day, huh, moppet?” Mycroft whispered once they’d been through the song four times and Sherlock had settled into a quiet weepiness. 

Sherlock had his thumb in his mouth, and Mycroft knew he should find the boy’s pacifier. He’d also remembered he’d dressed the boy in cotton training pants that morning to bolster his kid brother’s confidence, so now he needed to find a way to change his brother into a pull-up. A diaper would have been ideal, but it had been some time since Sherlock had been this young, and Mycroft had not thought to bring any along. Greg would be back with them soon, and hopefully Mycroft could get Sherlock through to lunchtime without any wet pants. 

“I have an idea, ‘Lockie,” Mycroft said, moving the boy the slightest distance away from him by lifting him from the armpits. He wanted to be able to look Sherlock in the eye. “Why don’t we go sit outside? You can listen to the frogs and toads and tell me which ones make which sounds.”

Sherlock looked ready to cry once more, as if unable to fully process his emotions in the moment, but Mycroft could see that, on some level, the idea pleased the boy. Sherlock nodded, even as a fresh wave of tears slid down his cheeks. Mycroft hoped a change of scene might quell the kid’s teariness. At any rate, fresh air and some sunshine couldn’t hurt.

“What do you say we get you dressed in some play clothes?” Mycroft asked as he stood from the bed and carried the boy towards the dresser. 

Sherlock was already dressed in clothes that were perfectly acceptable for sitting outside, but Mycroft needed an excuse to get the boy into a pull-up before he wet his pants and had a melt-down. It appeared a melt-down was inevitable, however, for the second Mycroft placed Sherlock onto the floor and began undressing him, the boy began to wail, raising his hands towards Mycroft and trying to climb back into his brother’s arms. 

“Just one second, baby,” Mycroft said, attempting to comfort the boy yet knowing if he took the boy back into his embrace he’d never get him changed. 

Eventually, after Mycroft’s gentle insistence that he couldn't pick Sherlock back up until he was dressed, the curly-haired boy fell limp to the floor, resolved to his tears and sadness. Mycroft dressed the weeping boy as quickly as he could, slipping Sherlock’s favorite pirate shirt over his head and stringing the kid’s arms through the sleeves. He lifted Sherlock around the middle and propped him up to lean against his own chest as he helped him step into a pull-up and then a soft pair of shorts that Mycroft actually thought were Greg’s, athletic shorts he wore when he worked out. Mycroft tied the drawstring to keep them from slipping off of Sherlock's narrow hips, glad they had somehow migrated into Sherlock’s bureau. 

“All set,” Mycroft said, pleased to be able to take Sherlock back into his arms. 

The boy cried louder when he was picked up, clutching onto Mycroft with a desperation that told him the current tears came from gratefulness more than sadness. Mycroft regretted that he would not be able to change out of his own pajama trousers and t-shirt for something a bit less ill-bred, but he consoled himself with the fact that it was not likely that there would be anyone wandering through the backyard to see him looking so unrefined. 

He carried Sherlock back through the house, gathering Dimitri and Bunny’s offered baby blanket, Sherlock’s pacifier, and his still-half-full sippy cup of juice from breakfast before sliding open the glass door which led to the porch. It was a beautiful summer morning, sunny enough to warm them but breezy enough to keep them from feeling uncomfortably warm. 

Mycroft sat on the porch swing, reaching behind to adjust a pillow against his lower back. He placed the sippy cup on the wooden table beside them, pressed the pirate pacifier gently against Sherlock’s lips until the boy accepted it into his mouth, placed Dimitri in Sherlock’s lap, and lay Bunny’s blanket over Sherlock’s bare legs. He then shifted Sherlock’s legs until he was sideways on Mycroft’s lap, his head resting on Mycroft’s shoulder. Sherlock pulled the plush dinosaur under an arm and cuddled into his brother. His hands grabbed at Mycroft’s t-shirt, and Mycroft leaned to kiss his brother’s temple.

As Mycroft rocked them in the swing, he allowed himself to settle into the peacefulness of the environment around them. The air was nice and the lake still, and even Mycroft himself was calmed by the gentle back and forth of the porch swing. He ran his fingers along Sherlock’s back, and hummed, grateful that his kid’s tears had at last settled into steady breathing as Sherlock suckled on his pacifier. 

\----

He guessed that Sherlock had been asleep for roughly forty-five minutes by the time he heard movement in the lake house which signaled Greg and John had returned from the store. Because the porch slider behind him was open, Mycroft could hear the front door open and then quick, heavy footsteps on the wooden staircase leading to the second floor. He craned his neck, curious as to who was running in the house, and saw a flustered Greg, arms laden with shopping bags, walking into the kitchen.

“Well, hello there,” Mycroft said as Greg stepped onto the porch. He’d placed the shopping bags onto the kitchen table, and Mycroft could clearly see that he was aggravated and short-tempered.

Greg took a seat in a Adirondack chair and ran a hand down his face.

“Everything alright?” 

Mycroft kept his voice low to keep Sherlock from waking up.

“Fine,” Greg said. “I just need to take a minute away from your misbehaving son.”

Mycroft chuckled, and could not help but tease.

“Hate to break it to you, but he’s your son, too, love,” he said. 

Greg glanced up at Mycroft and sighed, but Mycroft could see from the release of tension in the Detective Inspector’s shoulders and the softness in his eyes that the statement, to Greg, had been more than a passing quip. 

“It’s true,” Mycroft said, needing to reaffirm what he had come to truly believe to be a partnership in caring for Sherlock and John. “I know I’m not always effusive with my appreciation, but I’m grateful for you, and for how well you parent our little misbehaving hooligans.”

Greg smirked, then stood from his chair to lean down and kiss Mycroft.

“Thank you,” he said. “I love you.”

Mycroft nodded, the closest Greg would get to an “I love you, too” when Mycroft was sober and shifting into problem-solving mode. 

“What happened with the bunny?” he asked, and Greg settled back into his chair.

Greg proceeded to explain the events of the day, the shifts from a happy-go-lucky Bunny to a moody, argumentative kid wandering away and putting up outward shows of defiance in the store. He briefly mentioned the stress Bunny had shown to feel about his affinity towards nightgowns and paper dolls. Mycroft could see that there was more in Greg’s mind regarding the topic, and he knew they’d need to find the time to chat more fully regarding their conflicting beliefs over indulging this aspect of Bunny’s personality. For now, however, they needed to deal with the issue at hand.

“He spent nearly the entire car ride kicking and yelling,” Greg concluded. “By the time I pulled into the driveway he’d already unbuckled himself, and he climbed out of the car and ran into the house before I could even put the car in park, adding to his long list of broken rules for the day.”

“And now he’s closed himself in his bedroom?” Mycroft asked.

Greg nodded. “I just need a minute to collect myself,” he said, “then I’ll go up to talk to him.”

“You know he’s earned himself a spanking,” Mycroft said, and Greg sighed.

Spankings were another point of contention among each man’s respective parenting styles. Greg was hesitant to dole out any type of corporal punishment, even to Sherlock, who had admitted while out of headspace that he liked and wanted spankings to be included in ageplay. When it came to John, who had outright asked not to be spanked during the earliest conversations he’d had with Mycroft about boundaries, Greg downright refused. 

“Something was bothering him,” Greg said. “I should have done a better job of trying to communicate with him instead of letting the frustration get to me. None of us has gotten enough sleep over the course of the last few days.”

“Even so,” Mycroft said. “He needs to learn not to act out when something is bothering him.”

“I won’t do it, Mycroft,” Greg said, shaking his head. “Not without John consenting.”

“He can safeword out if he needs to. At this point, they need to trust that we know what’s best for them. I won’t allow them to behave like miscreants, especially not while in public, where there are safety concerns involved.” 

Mycroft could see that Greg was not going to waver, that the man was too uncomfortable about the prospect of having to spank their little bunny to follow through on any punishment of the sort. Mycroft only wished Greg could see that, more often than not, the boys acted out because they were struggling to accept or deal with various aspects of their headspaces. Spankings settled them into a vulnerable place where they were more able to accept love and affection, exactly what Bunny needed at the moment. 

“I’ll do it,” Mycroft said. Truth be told, the boys already looked at him as the disciplinarian, and, as long as John received a spanking, Mycroft didn’t think it quite mattered whether it came from himself or from Greg.

Mycroft could see the relief on Greg’s face.

“Remind him he can safeword out before you start?” Greg asked, and Mycroft nodded to relieve Greg’s conscience. 

He stood and transferred Sherlock from his arms to Greg’s. Luckily, the boy only stirred slightly to settle himself in Greg’s lap, and was quickly sleeping soundly once more. Greg leaned back and rested his head on the back of the chair, closing his own eyes. Mycroft kissed Sherlock on the forehead, then, seeing that Greg was nearly as drained by the morning’s events as Mycroft was of his own, he planted a kiss to Greg’s forehead as well.

“I’ll get Bunny settled, then it’s lunch and naptime,” Mycroft said, emphasizing naptime as if it were some kind of reward, and Greg smiled without opening his eyes, nodding as he angled his face towards the sunlight.

\----

Mycroft could hear Bunny’s crying even before he knocked on the bedroom door. It was clear the boy was distressed, particularly given that he’d, according to Greg, been crying since they had left the store nearly an hour ago. 

“Bun? It’s Daddy,” Mycroft called. “Can I come in?”

The boy’s crying stopped for a moment.

“Okay,” he called, the word barely decipherable as he dissolved back into tears.

When Mycroft opened the door, he found his little bunny hiding beneath the blankets on his bed, sheets and bedspread pulled up over his head. He had made himself as small as possible, curled up at the top of the mattress. Mycroft took a seat on the edge of the bed and let his hand rest on Bunny’s back over the blankets. 

“I’m sorry you’ve had such a tough morning, Bun,” he said. “Can Daddy help make it better?”

The boy sniffled and shook his head violently enough that Mycroft could tell he was refusing just from his body language beneath the blankets.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mycroft said. “In that case, is it okay if I sit just here for a while to keep you company?”

Bunny hesitated, then gave a small, miserable “okay” that was little more than a drawn-out sob. Mycroft could not help but wonder if they had ever had a day full of so many breakdowns for both Sherlock and John. It was rare both boys were so emotionally off at the same time. Then again, this was the longest stretch of uninterrupted ageplay they had had in quite some time, and it was bound to lead to new emotions and conflicts for the boys. He was distressed to see Bunny so upset, but there was also the relief that, over the course of the weekend at the lake, Bunny had become far less hesitant towards expressing his emotions. Mycroft had seen John cry more often in the past three days than he had during months of ageplay previously.

Mycroft rubbed his hand over Bunny’s hunched back, and, after sitting quietly for some time, was rewarded for his patience. The boy turned beneath the blankets and poked his nose and one eye out from under the sheet to look up at Mycroft. His face was a red-streaked mess of tears, and Mycroft could tell the boy was sucking his thumb.

“Bunny,” Mycroft warned. “You know you’re not to be sucking your thumb today. Take it out. Let me see your tongue.”

The boy emerged a bit further from the blankets, pulling his wet thumb from his lips, rubbing his eyes, and then sticking his tongue out of his mouth. Mycroft tsked at the irritated spot on the center of John’s tongue, and knew it must be causing the boy pain when he sucked. It would never heal if the boy continued to aggravate the sore.

“Uncle Greg said you wandered away from him at the store,” Mycroft said. 

He knew the boy was desperate for comfort and cuddles, but Mycroft also needed to get straight answers from the little bunny, and he couldn’t risk setting the boy off to crying again. Although it hadn’t seemed to be the case throughout the day, Bunny generally responded to pragmatism with pragmatism. Mycroft hoped he was enough himself again to participate in a rational conversation. He allowed Bunny to rest his head against his thigh, but pressed the boy’s hand down firmly when he tried to put his thumb in his mouth again. 

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” was all Bunny said, John’s characteristic passivity while in headspace returning. 

Mycroft was not surprised that John was once again reverting to sweetness and apologies; headspace gave the man a reprieve from the anger he was susceptible to when adult. It must have been not only draining, but rather confusing, for the man to have been feeling reverberations of that anger throughout the morning.

“What are you sorry for, Bun?” Mycroft prompted as a starting point.

“For sucking my thumb when I’m not allowed to today,” he said.

“We need to talk about what happened at the store, sweetheart,” Mycroft said when the boy did not say anything further. 

Bunny whined and turned to hide his face in a pillow.

“I think you know what you did wrong, Bunny,” Mycroft said. “It was very wrong of you to wander away from Uncle Greg when you were in the store and to disobey him. You scared Uncle Greg very much and you put yourself in danger by breaking the rules.” 

Bunny mumbled something into the pillow that Mycroft could not decipher.

“Turn this way,” Mycroft said, and Bunny was suddenly blinking up at him.

“Uncle Greg is mean,” is what Bunny said, repeating what he had mumbled a moment before. His cheeks flushed, as if he were nervous about his words.

Mycroft steeled himself against chastising the boy for such an unfair statement.

“Why do you feel that way, Bun?” Mycroft asked. “From what I understand, Uncle Greg was very kind about letting you pick out all kinds of nice things today at the store.” Far too many things, was on the tip of Mycroft’s tongue--god only knew why Greg felt such a strong desire to spoil the boys.

Bunny whined in the back of his throat. Mycroft wanted to force the boy to sit up and speak to him properly, but he knew they were treading on thin ice at the moment, and he needed to move with care.

“Why do you feel that way?” Mycroft repeated, voice a tad firmer.

“Uncle Greg thinks I’m a baby,” Bunny sniffled.

“Did something happen at the store to make you feel that way?”

Bunny nodded.

“Something Uncle Greg said to you?”

Bunny shook his head.

“I can’t help you unless you tell me, buddy,” Mycroft said, trying to keep himself from sighing. The boy blinked up at him and then dissolved into tears once more. Mycroft rubbed the boy’s shoulders. Greg wouldn’t be the only one grateful for the solitude of naptime, this afternoon.

And then, in the midst of Bunny’s wailing sobs, Mycroft finally understood what was upsetting the boy.

“I don’t want to wear diapers,” he whined, voice loud as he cried. “I’m a big boy!”

Mycroft couldn’t help but breathe a relieved sigh. The boy had seen Greg shopping for diapers, and had assumed they were for him, which had come as a blow to his self-confidence. It was all just a silly misunderstanding.

“Oh, lovebug,” he said, pulling John, still wrapped up in the blankets and sheets, into a hug. “Uncle Greg didn’t buy diapers for you. He bought them for Sherlock.”

Bunny took a moment to process Mycroft’s words, pressing his sniffling face into Mycroft’s shoulder. After a moment, he pulled away, and, as he sniffed and rubbed his face across his forearm, he glanced up at Mycroft.

“For Sherlock?” he said, his face an adorable picture of confusion.

“Yes, sweet boy. Remember how we talked about your brother feeling very little today? He’s just a bit too little to remember to use the potty, so I asked Uncle Greg to buy him some diapers.”

“I don't have to wear them?” Bunny asked, and Mycroft grinned at the boy’s need to clarify once more.

“No, baby,” Mycroft said, unable to keep from calling Bunny his baby when he was looking at him with such adorable innocence. “They’re for Sherlock.”

The tense anxiety John had been holding in his shoulders seemed to fall away, and he leaned into Mycroft for a hug before sitting up and looking nervous again.

“What is it now, kiddo?” Mycroft asked, eyebrows raised.

“Daddy, I was such a bad boy at the store and in the car. I have to tell Uncle Greg sorry and then sit in time-out for a really, really long time, okay?”

“You have certainly earned yourself a time-out, and I'm sure Uncle Greg will be glad to hear your apology,” Mycroft said, almost regretting what was coming next given the boy’s admirable insistence on giving into his usual punishment. “But wandering away from Uncle Greg is a bit more serious. You could have been hurt or lost.”

Bunny sighed and lay his head on Mycroft’s shoulder once more.

“I gotta be spanked?” he asked, voice pitifully small.

“Yes. It’s never okay to wander away from me or your Uncle Greg. You broke one of our most important rules, and you need to be punished for that.”

To his credit, Bunny did not cry or whine. He only nodded, as if he’d been prepared for the possibility of a spanking all along. 

“Daddy, I gotta tell you something, first,” Bunny said, pulling himself away from Mycroft and glancing down towards the blankets, which he twisted in his hands. “When I was in bed crying, I... after Uncle Greg and I got back from the store...I, um, I was crying really hard and I hadda accident.”

Mycroft should have known the day held more obstacles to overcome. He began untangling Bunny from the blankets, attempting to assess the damage. The boy’s pull-up had obviously not been able to handle the volume of liquid, for the kid had also wet his pants and his bed. There was wet patch on the sheets where he had been curled up, crying. He was unconcerned about whether this had been an intentional wetting or, as Bunny said, an accident. He assumed it was perhaps a bit of both, the boy not in a position to get himself to the bathroom and subconsciously desperate for the comfort he gained from wetting. 

“Good boy for telling me, Bun,” Mycroft said as he lifted the boy from the soiled bed. "That's okay." 

He instructed the boy to take off his pants and wet pull-up while he retrieved some wipes from the bathroom, and after a quick clean-up and a few more words of encouragement, Mycroft had the boy over his knee.

“You remember your safeword, Bunny?” Mycroft asked, fulfilling his promise to Greg while he settled John into position.

Bunny nodded.

“Verbal answer, please,” Mycroft prompted.

"I remember," Bunny said.

Mycroft gave him ten swats on his bare behind, beginning harsh and getting lighter as the boy squirmed and began to whimper. Bunny wasn’t used to spankings in the way Sherlock was; Mycroft didn’t want to hurt him more than was necessary to impress upon him the gravity of his poor decisions and to settle him into the type of needy, compliant headspace that would allow John to accept care for the rest of the day, if they were lucky. 

Bunny didn’t cry, however, and Mycroft worried that John’s previous experience with injury as well as his ability to stoically deal with lingering, chronic pain would render the spanking ineffective. His fears were put to rest, though, when, as soon as he was let up, the boy clambered into Mycroft's lap and pressed himself into his arms, mumbling apologies, desperate for affection.

“It’s all over, little bunny,” Mycroft assured him. And then, to settle his own worries: “Are you okay, baby boy?”

Bunny nodded, and Mycroft could see that he had slipped a bit lower in age during the spanking.

“Here’s the plan,” Mycroft said, finding that he was relieved to be finished with the first half of the punishment. “We’ll get you dressed, and you’ll sit in time-out while Uncle Greg and I make some lunch for you and your brother. Then, if you’re a good boy and get some food in that tummy, you can show me your new toys, and then you and Sherlock can take a nap in the big bed in Daddy and Uncle Greg’s room. Okay?”

Bunny nodded, and Mycroft gathered up the wet sheets as he supervised Bunny in the task of picking out some new clothes. 

“Daddy, were the pull-ups in the trolley for me?” he asked, voice sweet and small, standing with a blue and green striped pull-up in his hand. 

Mycroft had suggested that Greg pick up a new pack of Goodnights while at the store, and he assumed this was what his kid was referring to. But Bunny seemed hesitant, as if there were something else he wanted to ask. Had the kid changed his mind about wanting to wear pull-ups more often? 

“I’m sure they were, love. But you don’t have to wear them if you don’t want to.”

“Daddy, I want to wear one now,” he said.

Mycroft smiled, relieved that Bunny was expressing his desires. 

“Sure thing, kiddo,” he said, nodding to the pull-up in Bunny’s hand. “Would you like some help putting it on?” 

Bunny hesitated.

“Can I wear one of the new ones, Daddy?”

Mycroft was confused.

“They’re the same as always, Bun,” he said, knowing there were few options for pull-ups that would fit an adult, and knowing that Greg would have consulted him before trying a new brand. “Let’s use up the rest of these ones and then we’ll open the new package, okay?”

Bunny mumbled an okay, but he looked so disappointed that Mycroft could not help but think there was more to the situation than he knew.

“Why do you want to wear one of the new ones, Bunny?” he asked.

Bunny glanced up at him and could not help but smile.

“Because, Daddy, they’re pink!” he said, looking happier than Mycroft had seen him look all day.

Mycroft should have guessed, given Greg’s allusions to the nightgown and paper dolls Bunny had picked out at the store and the fact that Sherlock would not be wearing pull-ups until he was feeling older, that Greg had purchased the girls’ version of Goodnights for their kid. 

“Ah, I see,” Mycroft said. “Well, Let’s go see if we can find you a pink pull-up. Okay, buddy?”

“I’m not a buddy, anymore,” Bunny said, taking Mycroft’s offered hand. “Uncle Greg said I’m a princess!”

Mycroft had a lot to discuss with Greg during the boys’ naptime. He had his reservations about John exploring his feminine side while in headspace, and he didn’t think it wise that Greg had purchased so many items for John which allowed him to do just that.

But, at the moment, Mycroft would do anything to keep a smile on his kid’s face. 

“A princess?” Mycroft said, turning his surprise at the nickname into playfulness. “You know, I’ve met a few princesses in my time, but I think you might just be the prettiest.”

Bunny dissolved into giggles and flushed cheeks, and the joy in his eyes as he looked at Mycroft was almost enough to make him doubt his inclination to stifle this aspect of the boy’s personality. He vowed to sit down with Greg and hear him out on the issue, to set a plan in place about how they would proceed. 

For now, they had all had a tough day, and Mycroft suspected all of his boys could go for some macaroni and cheese and dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets.


	23. Chicken Nuggets and Closed Minds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've all left such wonderful comments--they're so encouraging to me. Thank you! I'm about to go to sleep, so I don't have time to respond to them all right now, but I promise I will start to respond as soon as I can tomorrow! For now, please know that you're all so appreciated.
> 
> I'm not sure how I feel about this chapter, as it went in directions I was not anticipating, but you lovelies deserve an update. It is mainly John/Bunny-angst and a frustrated Greg dealing with a bit of Mycroft's tendency towards close-mindedness. I keep setting out to write cuteness and end up with angst, but I promise the next chapter or two will be a bit less stressful for our boys considering the biggest issues Sherlock and John (and, by extension, Mycroft and Greg) have been struggling with have almost all worked themselves out. Things should go back to normal, and they should be dealing with nothing more than the everyday issues that come up in little space for the rest of the trip, which I'm looking forward to. 
> 
> The boys have certainly had a lot of conflict over the course of a short amount of time, but that's not surprising given that this was the first extended time the four of them have spent ageplaying. I'm looking forward to letting them have a cute and relaxing last night at the lake house before they pack up and head back to Baker Street. 
> 
> Hope you're all doing well--sending love and bunny kisses!

Bunny could hardly focus on his chicken nuggets. He pulled the waistband of his sweatpants away from his body to check on his pretty, pink pull-up for the sixth or seventh time since his lunch had been placed in front of him, and he could not help but smile. Sherlock was too little at the moment to pay him much mind, so he was not worried about being teased. He just wanted to look at it forever. 

Bunny had never liked the boy pull-ups. The striped ones were boring and the camouflage ones, if he wasn’t careful, made him think bad thoughts. But his pink and purple butterfly pull-ups made him feel safe and happy. He felt more like Bunny, as if he really was his Uncle Greg’s little princess. There were flowered pull-ups in the package Uncle Greg had bought, too, and he couldn’t wait for his chance to wear one.

“Do you need the loo, lad?” Uncle Greg asked, and Bunny pulled his hand out of his pants. He had been tracing the patterns on the front of the pull-up.

“No,” he said, reaching for a dinosaur chicken nugget and dunking it in ketchup. “Uncle Greg, can we get more pink pull-ups?” he asked, mouth full.

Uncle Greg laughed and began to nod, but, before he could answer, Bunny’s Daddy spoke up from where he was feeding Sherlock at the other end of the table.

“We’ll see, Bun,” he said. “Sherlock will need them again, too, soon enough, and he’s used to the blue ones.”

Bunny hung his head and pushed the ketchup around on his plate with the tail of a dinosaur chicken nugget. He tried not to be upset with his Daddy; he’d had a busy few days, and Bunny hadn’t exactly been the easiest kid that day, what with running away from Uncle Greg at the store and then wetting himself when he was crying in his bedroom. 

Bunny could tell that his Daddy didn’t like his new pull-ups as much as he did, or even as much as Uncle Greg did, who’d commented on how sweet he looked when he offered to change him into one before lunch. His Daddy had tried to look pleased when Bunny showed him the new pull-ups, but he’d straightened the cuffs of his sleeves and only hummed in response, and Bunny had become self-conscious, and quickly stepped into and pulled on his sweatpants.

“Can I wear my new mermaid nightgown to take a nap, Daddy?” Bunny asked. 

It was a bit of a test. Uncle Greg had said it was okay for Bunny to like mermaids and pinks and purples. He’d even let him buy paper dolls and a floppy plush bunny and a pretty mermaid nightgown. But his Daddy seemed hesitant, and Bunny was starting to doubt Uncle Greg’s earlier assurances. Was Uncle Greg wrong? Did his Daddy not think it was alright for Bunny to have those things?

Sherlock was squirming out of his chair, more interested in playing than eating lunch. His Daddy glanced up from where he was trying to get Sherlock back into a seated position, but he was looking over his head at Uncle Greg, not at him.

“Let’s save your new nightgown for bedtime, huh, Bunny?” Uncle Greg asked, coming up behind him to place a hand on his shoulder.

Bunny shrugged his shoulder out from under Uncle Greg’s touch. 

“Daddy, I’m not hungry,” he said to pull Mycroft’s attention away from Sherlock, who was licking ketchup from his fingers and parading his dinosaur chicken nuggets across his plate as Mycroft tried to feed him bites of macaroni and cheese. 

Mycroft turned and glanced at Bunny’s still full plate. 

“Three more big bites,” he said, and Bunny could tell he was attempting to be encouraging, that he was starting to suspect Bunny's concern. “Then you can show Sherlock your new toys before naptime.”

“I don’t want to show them,” Bunny mumbled, knuckling at his eye. He couldn’t stand the thought of having to present Sherlock with the toys he’d chosen as his Daddy looked on. He'd wanted to show the new toys right to his Daddy, but now he worried over the thought of his Daddy judging the pretty dolls and the snuggly bunny. They suddenly seemed silly, somehow wrong, and he hoped they would just stay hidden away in the bags from the store. “Just want to go nap.” 

He wasn’t upset with his Daddy. After all, his Daddy and Uncle Greg had put up with a lot in the past few days, from Sherlock’s temper tantrums when he’d found out about Bunny calling Mycroft Daddy to Bunny’s accidents and his misbehaving that afternoon, when he’d run away from Uncle Greg at the store. If anything, Bunny was upset with himself for giving his Daddy more to worry about. He shouldn’t be pushing for things he wanted when his Daddy had more important things to worry about. He shouldn’t be disrupting what had come to be the routine of their little family by asking for new guidelines. 

Come to think about it, Bunny hadn’t exactly been the easiest kid to deal with, lately. The day before, Bunny had pretended to be little when he wasn’t , then he’d wet Sherlock’s bed during naptime and then his pants when he and Sherlock were playing in the attic. He'd also been unable to sleep once he'd been put to bed, and had asked to sleep with his Daddy and Uncle Greg. He’d even hurt his tongue sucking too hard on his pacifier, causing even more trouble for his Daddy and Uncle Greg, and then he’d gone and wet his pants and bed again earlier that day, when he was crying because he thought Uncle Greg had bought diapers for him at the store. 

Bunny had been a bother and a burden for almost two whole days, and now he was just adding more trouble by wanting to wear girls’ pull-ups and play with dolls. Why hadn't he realized until that moment just how bad of a boy he’d been? It was no wonder his Daddy didn’t want to buy him more pink pull-ups or let him wear his new nightgown. He didn’t deserve them. 

He squeezed his eyelids tight against the tears welling up, and missed his pacifier more in that moment than he had all day. He eyed Sherlock’s pirate pacifier, resting on the kitchen table where his Daddy had placed it after pulling it from Sherlock’s mouth to feed him, and wished he was allowed his own. 

“Are you sure?” Mycroft asked. “Uncle Greg said you picked out some nice presents for your brother. I’m sure he’d love to see them.”

Bunny shook his head.

“I’m tired, Daddy,” he said. “I want to sleep.” 

Bunny was supposed to be helping take care of Sherlock while he felt younger than usual, but he couldn't focus his attention onto his brother without wondering if it was his fault Sherlock had woken up sadder and younger than usual, if he'd brought about his bad day. 

The adult part of him in the back of his mind began thinking maybe he should age up, that the only way to keep from being more of a bother would be to get big and take some time for himself to process his emotions. He tried to pull himself out of the vulnerability and sadness swarming in his mind. But the thought that he’d disappointed his Daddy in some way, that he’d let both Mycroft and Sherlock down, kept him needy and scared. 

Bunny tried not to show them that he was starting to cry. He rubbed the palms of his hands against his eyes to keep the tears from falling visibly. 

Uncle Greg seemed to have noticed Bunny’s distress.

“I can take you upstairs if you want to lay down for a nap, little princess,” Uncle Greg said, and, when Bunny glanced up, he could not help but notice the way his Daddy looked at Uncle Greg with hesitancy, maybe even anger. If his Daddy wasn’t okay with Bunny being a princess, Bunny didn't want to be one. He just wanted his Daddy to like him again, to stop looking at him as if he'd done something wrong. 

“I’m not a princess,” he said, knuckling his eyes but unable to keep his voice steady in the midst of his crying. “Don't call me that, anymore.”

“Sweetheart,” Uncle Greg tried, but Bunny was glancing up across the table at Mycroft, who was trying to keep Sherlock from peeling off the band-aids that had been placed on his hand after he'd gotten big and angry and had punched the window two days before.

“I’ll be just a boy, Daddy,” he said, voice desperate as he tried to hiccup back his tears. “I’ll be only a good boy, okay?”

Bunny could not stand to cry in front of his Daddy or to cause more trouble. He pushed himself away from the table and ran from the room, ignoring his Daddy and Uncle Greg, both of whom called to him as he raced up the stairs and into his bedroom, where he stepped out of his sweatpants, pulled off the pink pull-up, and climbed under the blankets. 

He pushed his baby blanket off of the mattress, not wanting to be close to the girly bunnies, and buried his face into his plush lion. But when he remembered she was named Ariel, he pushed her off the bed in disgust, letting her fall to the floor beside his baby blanket. He curled up against the pillow, and could not help but let his thumb slip into his mouth, wanting his Daddy and his Uncle Greg and, despite the blush it brought to his cheeks and the tears it brought to his eyes, his new nightgown. 

\----

Mycroft could see that Greg was not happy. He was looking at Mycroft with an expression that conveyed both anger and disappointment as they sat in the kitchen in the wake of Bunny’s tears and distressed fleeing from the kitchen.

“You can’t just let the kid be?” He asked, and Mycroft glanced at a worried Sherlock.

“Bunny’s sad,” Sherlock said, sitting uncharacteristically calm, his eyes wide. He seemed as surprised as Mycroft at Bunny’s little outburst.

Mycroft stood and lifted Sherlock into his arms.

“Let me put him down for his nap,” he said, nodding towards Sherlock, whom Mycroft hoped would settle quickly. “I’ll be back.”

He could tell Greg was ready to discuss, that he had a list of points he wanted to put to Mycroft regarding his perspective and beliefs of Bunny’s desires, but Mycroft needed a moment to process, and he knew it was a conversation they should have without distractions.

Mycroft took Sherlock to the master bedroom, hoping eventually to get Bunny to nap with Sherlock in the larger bed, where he knew both of his boys would be content and safe, and neither would be alone. Luckily, two nights of barely any sleep and a younger headspace made for a pliable Sherlock, and it took only a diaper change and a back rub to get Sherlock down for a nap. 

Mycroft took a moment to himself before returning to face Greg in the kitchen, perched on the edge of the bed beside a sleeping Sherlock. He hadn’t meant to upset their little Bunny. The kid had seemed okay; Mycroft was still unclear about what exactly had upset the boy so much. 

He’d been trying to steel his displeasure about the pink pull-ups and the nightgown as much as possible, not wanting to put a damper on the happiness Bunny had shown. Then again, he should have known the kid would be attuned to his true feelings, that he was rarely able to hide anything from Bunny. John was extremely sensitive, despite what he showed in his adult headspace; he understood human emotion perhaps better than anyone Mycroft had come across, and so it was no surprise that Bunny had seen through Mycroft’s attempts at nonchalant acceptance. 

Mycroft had not originally had any qualms about Bunny’s requests for mermaid bath toys or glitter crayons. He’d bought the boy what he asked for, pleased to see him feeling comfortable in little space even while coloring princesses and watching Disney movies. But, as the weeks passed and John became more comfortable ageplaying and more likely to express his desire for feminine items, Mycroft had begun to worry that John’s desire to express himself in this way was less healthy for John than he had originally anticipated, and it was this worry that brought out his unsurety and displeasure.

He stood from his place at the edge of the mattress with a groan. He did not have the mental energy to argue, but he knew he was in for a disagreement. 

Greg had cleared away the lunch dishes and was sitting at the kitchen table, waiting. He’d made coffee, and a cup sat across from him at the table. Mycroft sat in front of the waiting mug, nodding his thanks.

“He just wants your approval,” Greg said, taking a sip from his own mug of coffee. “Is it so hard to give it to him?”

Mycroft ran a hand down his face with a sigh.

“I need to talk with John about this,” he said. “I need to be sure letting him explore this desire is in his best interest.”

“This is not just a desire, Mycroft,” Greg explained, assured and firm. “This is a part of him. What's best for John is that we allow him to express himself in this way.”

“How can you be sure?” Mycroft asked. “Isn’t it just as likely that he’s using this as an alternate little personality, as a way to keep from fully finding his true self in headspace?”

Greg leaned across the table a bit closer to Mycroft.

“Doesn’t that seem a bit duplicitous for a man as full of integrity as John?”

“You didn’t know little John in his earliest stages of ageplay,” Mycroft said. “You didn’t see how unsure of himself he was, how eager he was to fit specifically into whatever he thought was wanted of him. It was Sherlock who created Bunny, Greg. Not John. I worry that John is playing a character, that he feels more comfortable separating himself as much as possible from his adult self than he does finding his actual personality in headspace, that he somehow thinks this is the role he should be playing.”

“You didn’t see him in the store, My,” he said. “He wasn’t playing a part. He was longing for these things, so afraid of disappointing you or Sherlock by wanting them and yet unable to keep from showing just how much he wants them, how much he needs them.”

Mycroft sighed.

“Doesn’t it seem a bit...abnormal?” he asked, and here were Mycroft’s own insecurities and prejudices on display. It had been innocent enough when it was just coloring books and movies; Mycroft was less able to accept that this was just a quirk were John standing in front of him in a nightgown.

“He doesn’t need judgement,” Greg said. His tone of voice was sensitive to Mycroft’s concern, yet it was also firm, assured. “Who’s to say there’s anything abnormal about John wanting to wear nightgowns? We let Sherlock traipse around pretending to be a pirate, which many people would call less than normal.”

Mycroft sighed. Perhaps Greg was right. Perhaps he was letting his own hang-ups pepper his interpretation of the situation. John had seemed genuinely pleased by the items Greg had purchased for him, proud to show them off. 

“I just want him to feel free to be himself in headspace,” he said.

“This is himself,” Greg said. “John’s spent years in the military. He’s lived by a very specific code of conduct. I think headspace gives him a chance to explore a side of himself he was never allowed to previously, to let go of the pressure to be constantly masculine.”

Mycroft could concede Greg’s points. If John were simply creating a character to play while in headspace, if he were using feminization to keep himself at an arm’s length from his true younger self, it was unlikely he’d have been quite so hurt and ashamed by Mycroft’s rejection of his wishes and excitement, so personally threatened by the prospect of displeasure. It was unlikely he’d continue to risk teasing from Sherlock and the potential rejection from Mycroft or be so emotional while stating his plans to reject them and "be a good boy" if these were not true, deep needs. 

“I need to apologize to him,” he said, and Greg nodded. Mycroft could see the relief in his countenance, the way some of the tension left his broad shoulders. Here was another reminder of Greg’s kindness towards the boys, of his ability to see what, at times, Mycroft could not.

“Just listen to what he has to say,” Greg said. “Let him know you hear him.”

Mycroft took another sip of coffee--he generally preferred tea, but coffee provided him with a bit more stabilization, something Greg knew--and stood from his chair. He leaned across the table to kiss Greg.

“What would you do without me?” Greg smirked, and Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“I’d be blissfully unaware,” he said. “And I wouldn’t have a bathroom cabinet full of pink diapers.”

Greg smiled and, reaching into the shopping bags he’d earlier dropped off by the sliding glass doors, pulled out the plush bunny John had seemed instantly attached to at the store. He yanked the tag from the fuzzy ear, then tossed the toy across the table. Mycroft caught it. Greg reached in again and found the Little Mermaid nightgown, which he also passed over to Mycroft. 

“Go check on our kid,” Greg said. “Then get him to sleep. I don’t think I’ve ever been this relieved to reach naptime in my life.”

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow, then, plush rabbit and colorful nightgown in hand, he set out to cheer up his little bunny princess.


	24. What the Little Bunny Needs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't stand having things unresolved between little Bunny and Mycroft, so here's the resolution to the previous chapter. Warnings for wetting (not sure I need to give advance notice of that anymore considering I use it so often, but just in case) and for a long chapter (this one is longer than I anticipated). 
> 
> Thank you for your comments and kudos--I'm super behind in responding to comments, but I promise to respond to each and every one of them very very soon (hopefully tonight, although they're saying the archive will be down for a bit tonight). Let me know what the boys should get up to in their last afternoon and morning at the lake house as well as (possibly) on their car ride back to London--looking for suggestions for anything cute and fluffy to end this story on a high note!
> 
> Sending you all love--be kind to yourselves!

By the time Mycroft knocked on the bedroom door, Bunny was gone, and only John remained. 

It had been Bunny who ran from the kitchen table to cry into his pillow and suck his thumb, but it was John who, after jerking awake and climbing out of bed to dress himself, was currently pacing back and forth between the bedroom windows. John’s overwrought mind had just been too much for the little one to handle, and he needed a few moments to process in his adult mindset.

“Bunny? Can Daddy come in?” Mycroft called gently.

John closed the space between himself and the door and pulled it open.

“Come in, Mycroft,” John said. His throat was raw from his earlier crying, and his voice sounded strange to his ears. Without realizing it, he had grown used to the more childish tone he slipped into whenever he spent time as Bunny.

John could see that Mycroft sensed his shift in mindset immediately.

“John,” he said.

He glanced at the items in his hands. The nightgown and plush rabbit John had been so excited to pick out at the store when he was younger had obviously lost their intended purpose of placating now that John had aged up. But John could sense the contrition in Mycroft’s gesture, knew that, had he still been young, Mycroft would have dressed him in the nightgown and tucked him back into the pink pull-up still lying discarded on the floor and helped him pick out the right name for his new rabbit friend. 

“I thought…” Mycroft said, clearly not having prepared for a scenario where John was big. 

John smiled gently, and stepped back from the doorway to let Mycroft off the hook by welcoming him into the room. It was interesting to see Mycroft thrown off his game, if not a bit disconcerting. Normally, Mycroft thought through each avenue and facet of a situation before placing himself into its bounds. Then again, John knew this situation was rather outside Mycroft’s purview.

“No one was exactly prepared for this,” John said, walking back towards the windows.

His voice was stern, a bit unforgiving. He was not entirely pleased with the way Mycroft had handled the situation. Even John himself had been thrown off by his own proclivities--he'd never anticipated gaining such strong pleasure from stereotypically feminine objects--but Mycroft’s reaction had gone beyond confusion or inquisition, and had begun to tread towards cruelty. 

Mycroft sat on the edge of the bed, placing the nightgown and rabbit beside him.

“John, I--”

“I need to speak,” John said. “Let me talk, first.”

He’d been planning what he wanted to say in the event Mycroft came to check up on him. He’d known it was a distinct possibility, particularly given the anger Greg had shown in the moments before John had retreated from the kitchen. And while it would have been far easier to talk with Greg--understanding, progressive, supportive Greg, John knew it was important that he and Mycroft get on the same page, that they find a way to move forward without any lingering unease. 

Mycroft straightened the cuffs of his sleeves and turned to listen. 

“I don’t exactly know why I like those things,” John said, feeling plagued by the awkwardness that often came when he had to rationalize Bunny behavior while adult. “I guess, on some level, I’ve wanted them ever since I first started slipping into headspace. The identification wasn’t as strong initially, but, looking back, I can see it was there even before I started asking for things.”

John recalled nights he was put to bed little, when he would lie in bed and imagine playing with dolls, when he imagined himself a little princesses.

“I hid it because I was ashamed,” he continued. “I didn’t want you to be disappointed in me.”

Mycroft began to speak, but John silenced him by raising his hand.

“I still don’t fully understand it, but I’ve come to accept it. I’m sure Sherlock, when he ages up, will have some choice words deducing my inability to express my feminine side while adult or about some half-baked notion that I have latent jealousy issues regarding my sister’s childhood in contrast to my own. Whatever the reason, I've decided to stop beating myself up about it. You yourself said I shouldn't be concerned about things I wanted as long as they weren't hurting anyone else.”

John turned back towards the window. 

“But I know you’re not comfortable with it. And, if it’s something you want me to save for nights when Greg’s babysitting, I think I can do that.”

“John,” Mycroft said. 

His voice was pained, at its gentlest, and John had to force himself to keep from viewing him as his Daddy in the moment. He needed a separation, needed to view Mycroft right now as just a flawed man who happened to be his friend. It was too hard to look at him as the Daddy whom Bunny viewed as faultless. 

John didn’t want to have to save parts of his little personality for specific nights, but a part of him he still had trouble acknowledging couldn’t bear the thought of losing Mycroft as his caretaker. He turned to glance at him.

“I was wrong,” Mycroft said, standing to step closer to John. “I’ve been holding onto asinine misconceptions and rationalizing them by insisting this was an unhealthy interest on your part. But this has always had more to do with myself and my own qualms than it has with you, and for that I’m sorry.”

John rubbed a hand along the back of his neck.

“It’s alright, Mycroft,” he said, characteristically forgiving the moment he was confronted with kindness.

“It’s not alright,” Mycroft insisted, “You don’t need to insist that it is. I was wrong, and it’s okay to admit you’ve been hurt by my mistreatment of you. I want us to be able to move forward.”

Mycroft led John to the bed, where they sat on the end of the mattress. John pulled a leg under himself to get more comfortable; Mycroft sat as straight-backed and still as ever.

“Tell me how you felt,” Mycroft said.

John sighed. It was still rather hard to express himself, especially considering he was being asked to express his discontent with Mycroft's behavior directly to Mycroft. But he understood that this was important not only for Mycroft's understanding of the situation, but for his own ability to express his true emotions; Mycroft was providing him with the chance to release some of the doubt and worry that had been swirling in his mind all day.

“Dirty,” was what John admitted first. “Wrong.”

Mycroft nodded, eyebrows furrowed in concern.

“Go on,” he said.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t want to…” John hesitated. “To be my caregiver, anymore. So I’ve been stifling it when I catch myself. But we’ve had such a stressful few days, what with Sherlock finding out about the Daddy/Bunny development. And I’ve been more worried and nervous than I think I even realized--trying to process these thoughts and the idea of being more open around Sherlock.”

John did not mention that he’d also been attempting to process the frequent accidents he’d had at the lake house, and the ramifications of them on himself and others. That was a separate issue, one that he needed to discuss with Mycroft, yes, but there was only so much embarrassment a man could take in one moment.

“I guess the stress is why I longed for the comfort. I didn’t mean to stare at the nightgown in the store. I didn’t even say anything. But you know how perceptive Greg can be when we’re young.”

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow and smiled, nodding.

“I went along with his offers to buy me what I wanted, and I really did believe for a moment that it would all be okay.” 

“You were so excited about the pull-ups,” Mycroft said, and John could not help but flush, suddenly aware of the presence of the pink pull-up he’d discarded on the floor when he’d first come upstairs for nap time. “I’m sorry I did not respond well to that excitement.”

“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable,” John said. 

Mycroft shook his head. 

“You’re not wrong for liking glitter and mermaids,” he said, chuckling. “And there’s nothing dirty about it. It’s all rather innocent, actually. I apologize for making you feel as if you couldn’t express yourself in this way. Greg’s helped me to see that there’s no harm in this, that my own insecurities are what caused me to be uncomfortable. If anything, this is a positive development. You’re coming into yourself in headspace, which is what I’ve been hoping for all along.” 

John seemed noticeably relieved.

“Are you sure?” he asked, and he could have kicked himself for how young he sounded.

Mycroft leaned forward and kissed John on the forehead. John blushed, and mumbled that he was big, but he was grateful for the comfort no matter what he said. Deep down, he wasn't sure if he’d have been able to function had Mycroft not accepted this part of him. 

“I’m more than sure,” Mycroft said, and John smiled.

He stood from the bed and gathered the nightgown and plush bunny.

“Now,” he said, “Are you ready for naptime?”

John blushed, ducking his head.

“I might need some help slipping down again,” he said, and Mycroft took a seat back on the bed.

“Is something else worrying you?” he asked.

John shook his head. 

“John,” Mycroft said, voice tinged with a bit of a warning. “You know it’s best we talk about it while it’s on your mind. I want you to have a relaxing end to the weekend.”

John could not help but groan a bit. He was not ready to talk about pissing himself, which at times seemed to embarrass him even more than his need for pink. But it had been a constant source of contemplation and self-questioning, particularly after the night before, when he’d aged up and come to realize just how much he wanted wetting to continue being a part of his ageplay experience.

“Can we talk when I’m aged down?” John asked. 

Generally, he and Mycroft discussed various elements of ageplay while John was fully adult. But he knew his adult mindset would censor him in this case, would keep him from fully expressing himself out of embarrassment. John taking a liking to wetting had the hints of arousal to it, and while he had grown far closer to Mycroft than he’d ever imagined, he was not ready to discuss his sex life with the man. That was something they’d rarely touched, not least of all because John’s sex life involved Mycroft’s little brother. 

Mycroft glanced at John as if assessing his current state of mind. He nodded after a moment, then stood and held out John’s new nightgown.

“Let’s get you nice and comfy, yeah?” he asked, slipping into Daddy-mode. 

John hemmed a bit, unsure of himself as he fought to sink back down into his little headspace, but Mycroft began undressing him, and rather than fight it, John allowed himself to settle into the embarrassment until it blurred his thoughts. He stepped out of his sweatpants and allowed Mycroft to strip him of his jumper and shirt. 

And then John was stringing his arms through the Little Mermaid nightshirt, and any chance of staying adult dissipated. He could not help but stare at the cartoon images on the front, tracing the lines made by each figure. The feeling the nightgown gave him was a contented happiness he’d rarely felt before, one reminiscent of the quiet times Mycroft cuddled him in his arms, one that cast him down deep into the calm of headspace. He found himself bouncing on his toes, young and innocent and, more than anything, happy. 

When he glanced up, Mycroft was smiling down at him.

“You like that, ladybug?” he asked, and John beamed at the nickname, nodding emphatically. 

“Here you go,” Mycroft said, passing John the plush bunny. 

John gathered the toy into his arms, kissing its nose and then tucking it beneath one of his arms. He stepped towards Mycroft, then leaned against his chest and wrapped the arm not holding the toy around the man. Mycroft wrapped him in his arms, and leaned down and kissed the top of his head.

“Let’s have a nice chat,” Mycroft said. “And then we’ll get you to sleep with your brother before nap time’s over.”

As he stepped out of Mycroft’s hold, John’s eyes wandered to the butterfly pull-up on the bedroom floor. 

“I know you’re a big kid,” Mycroft said, following John’s gaze. “But I think it might be a good idea to wear a pull-up for naptime, just in case. How does that sound?” 

John nodded absently, grateful that he and Mycroft were on the same page once more. He tucked the plush bunny beneath his chin and swayed slightly from side to side. His mind was already so calm and settled as he felt the fabric of the nightshirt against his chest and hips; he wasn’t sure what would happen when he was also dressed in the pink pull-ups he was so excited were actually his. 

John squirmed out of his briefs and then stepped into the pull-up that Mycroft, kneeling before him, held out. Mycroft was careful to work it up John’s thighs and hips, and John stood still and let Mycroft do the work, not wanting it to tear. He could not help but put his fingers in his mouth as the pull-up was settled on his waist, an overwhelming sense of care and comfort washing over him. He felt like his true little self, cared for and accepted. For once, he didn’t have to hide or worry about who he was, and he smiled widely as he reached down to feel the bulk of the pull-up between his legs before diving forward and pressing himself to Mycroft in another hug.

“Pretty,” he said by way of explaining his shows of affection when he pulled away at last. 

Mycroft ruffled his hair and then patted his cheek, smiling down at him.

“Like a princess,” he said, and John smiled even wider, unconcerned that his cheeks were beginning to hurt. 

“Come sit with me, love bug,” Mycroft said, taking a seat on the bed and patting the space beside him.

Bunny clambered up onto the mattress and leaned into Mycroft, pulling the man's arm around his shoulders.

“Thank you, Daddy,” he said. 

“You don’t need to thank me,” Mycroft said. "I want you to be happy, Bun."

He leaned into his Daddy and nodded.

“Daddy?” he asked, suddenly reminded of the last conversation he’d had when alone with Mycroft, when he had hid in his room to cry after going to the store with Uncle Greg. “‘member when you called me ‘baby’? After I was crying before?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Mycroft said. “I’m sorry for that. I know you’re not a baby. It’s just that sometimes I can’t help but think of you as my littlest boy, and that means you’re my sweet baby.”

Bunny had always fought against being called ‘baby,’ knowing Sherlock used it to tease and demean. It had bothered him when they’d first started ageplaying, made him ashamed and uncomfortable because it signified that he wasn’t a big enough boy to do things on his own, that he was too little. But, lately, Bunny had been coming to see that he didn’t have to be a big boy all the time, that sometimes he wanted to wet his pants and suck his thumb, and it really didn’t matter what Sherlock thought at all. 

“You can call me that if you want,” Bunny said, nuzzling into Mycroft’s chest.

Mycroft smiled down at him, obviously understanding that it was something Bunny wanted as well. 

“Okay, baby,” he said. "I'd like that." 

“But I’m still your big boy most of the time,” Bunny said, pulling away from Mycroft to look him in the eye and ensure he understood. 

Mycroft nodded with a gentle laugh.

“Is this what was on your mind, earlier?” he asked.

Bunny got shy, and he shrugged as he began running his fingers along the ear of his new bunny rabbit. He wanted to tell his Daddy about wetting his pants, that it made him feel young and cared for, that he wanted to wear pull-ups all the time and be little enough to need reminders and pull-up checks and maybe even a sticker chart. But the words were hard. 

Luckily, Mycroft was as perceptive as ever.

“Bunny, does this have to do with your pull-ups?” he asked, and Bunny’s cheeks blazed as he nodded.

“Okay,” Mycroft said. “Can you tell me more?”

Bunny shook his head.

“What if I ask you questions? Can you tell me yes or no?”

“Okay,” Bunny said, voice quiet. He lay close against Mycroft and pulled his knees up towards his chest. 

“Do you want to keep wearing your pink and purple pull-ups that Uncle Greg bought?”

A nod.

“Do you want to wear pull-ups to bed, like Sherlock?”

Another nod.

“Do you want to wear pull-ups during the day, too?”

Bunny hid his face against Mycroft, but nodded again.

“You’re doing well,” Mycroft said, encouraging the boy, rubbing a hand up and down his back. “Thank you for being honest.” 

“Bunny, do you want to use your pull-ups?”

Bunny thought for sure Mycroft would be able to feel the heat from his embarrassed cheeks as he nodded again. 

“But I’m not a baby,” he said, finding his voice at last.

Mycroft shushed his fears.

“Of course not,” he said. 

Mycroft was quiet for a moment, and Bunny knew it was to allow him the space to speak up, to elaborate and explain exactly what it was he wanted. Bunny was sleepy and warm pressed against his Daddy, and a part of him wanted to allow himself to drift off and finally take a nap. But a larger part of him knew this was his chance to ask for what he wanted, and his Daddy always told him he needed to voice his needs. 

“Daddy, maybe...maybe you could ‘mind me to use the potty?” he breathed at last. “And, and maybe...you and Uncle Greg could check to see that I haven’t hadda accident?”

Mycroft shifted the boy until he was sitting in his lap, Bunny’s legs draped over the side of the bed. 

“You want to be potty training?” Mycroft said, putting to words exactly what John wanted. “Is that what you want, baby?” he asked.

Bunny nodded emphatically, glad to be understood. 

“Makes me feel safe,” he said. “Less worried about being grown-up.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do, Bun,” Mycroft said. “We’ll need to keep you in pull-ups all the time, then. Is that what you want?”

“Yeah, Daddy,” Bunny said, relieved that Mycroft seemed to be taking this all in stride. “And maybe I could have stickers, Daddy?”

Mycroft looked confused. 

“Stickers?” he asked.

“On a chart, Daddy,” he said.

“Oh, you mean when you keep your pants dry?” Mycroft asked, and Bunny nodded, eyes shining with happiness. 

“With glitter stickers,” Bunny said, just realizing that maybe he’d have the chance to pick out the colors and the styles and the shapes.

“I think we can make that happen, sweetheart,” he said. “How about this? For the rest of our time at the lake house, Uncle Greg and I will keep you in pull-ups and you can use them or the potty whenever you’d like. When we get back to London, we’ll get everything ready and start potty training.”

“Yes, Daddy,” Bunny said, laying his head against Mycroft’s chest. 

He sat up a moment later.

“Daddy?” he said. “I have to go potty, now.”

Mycroft had been resting his eyes, head leaned against the headboard.

“Okay, baby,” he said, glancing at Bunny. “Do you want me to take you to the potty?”

Bunny fiddled with the hem of his nightshirt, and, after a moment, shook his head.

“Ah, okay,” Mycroft said. “Up you go, then.”

Mycroft lifted him off of his lap and stood him up beside the bed. 

“Hold your nightgown up in case your pull-up leaks, princess,” Mycroft said.

Bunny could not help but be grateful for Mycroft’s foresight in encouraging Bunny by calling him ‘princess.’ He was reminding him of what he’d said earlier, that Bunny could express himself anyway he pleased, and that Daddy would be there to help. He remembered that Daddy just wanted him to be happy. He tucked his plush bunny beneath his arm and gathered the hem of the nightshirt until he was holding it bunched high around his middle. He didn’t want to get it dirty.

Mycroft reached forward and adjusted Bunny’s pull-up, running a finger along the inside of the leg holes to ensure they were not bunched or pulling in the wrong direction. 

“I’ll go get you a new pull-up, and I’ll help you change as soon as you want me to, okay?”

Bunny hesitated as Mycroft turned to leave the room.

“Scared, Daddy,” he said, unable to keep from pressing his thighs together as a slight stab of need pressed against his bladder.

Mycroft turned back towards him.

“There’s nothing to be scared of, love,” he said. “Little boys use their pull-ups all the time.”

Bunny had certainly peed himself before, but he’d never done it after announcing what he was about to do. Usually, he waited until he couldn’t hold it anymore, and didn’t fight too hard against having an accident if he was feeling in the mood to be wet and little. This was different. He had to pee, but not badly enough to cause an accident just yet. He would be peeing in his pull-up on purpose.

“Can you come back right away and then stay with me, Daddy?” he asked, cheeks pinking.

Mycroft seemed a bit surprised, but recovered quickly. 

“Sure, Bun,” he said. “I’ll stay once I’m back.”

Mycroft left to get what he needed downstairs, and Bunny began shifting from foot to foot as he waited for his Daddy to get back. 

The truth of the matter was that he’d been wanting to wet his new pull-up since Uncle Greg had first put it on him. His original thought as he sat down at the lunch table was that he’d wait until he’d been put down for a nap, and then he’d wet it and pretend it had happened while he slept, as it often did to Sherlock. But then he’d gotten upset and had run away from the table, and now he’d gone and asked his Daddy if he could wet himself, and he wanted more than anything to follow through. He wanted to wet his butterfly pull-up while dressed in his Little Mermaid night shirt, like a real little girl or boy. 

“Hold up your shirt,” Mycroft reminded when he re-entered the room with wipes and a fresh pull-up. 

Bunny gathered up his nightshirt where part of the hem had fallen out of his distracted grip. Mycroft appeared rather unphased as he took his seat back on the bed, as if he had not just been asked to stick around while Bunny wet himself, for which Bunny was grateful. 

“Okay, Daddy?” he asked, needing another assurance.

“Okay, Bunny,” Mycroft said, a hint of amusement in his voice. “You can go ahead.” 

Bunny closed his eyes and forced himself to stop squirming. It was difficult to convince himself that he was allowed to wee in his pants, that he wasn’t going to get in trouble or get teased for wetting. But, with a gasp, he relaxed himself enough to start peeing. He felt a pulse of wetness inside the front of his pull-up as he released, and he fought against the instinct to stop himself, letting the pulse become a stream. Before long, it was beyond his control, and he barely breathed as he felt the warmth soak into the pull-up, spreading upwards and then spreading downwards, soaking into the dry sections of the pull-up and then trailing towards his bum. The stream was thick and fast, saturating the pull-up in a heavy, fast heat. 

Bunny keened in the back of his throat as the smell of his accident reached him, and a moment later he felt the pull-up leaking, trickling out of the left leg hole to run down his thigh and his calf until it began puddling around his foot on the hardwood floor. He continued to pee, unable to stop, suddenly helpless against the rush of liquid streaming through the too-full pull-up and falling to patter onto the floor. 

When at last he felt his bladder empty, he blinked back to awareness. Mycroft had given him a semblance of privacy by looking away, which Bunny was grateful for, but now he was wet, and littler than ever, and he wanted his Daddy to cuddle. 

He started to cry. 

It wasn’t that Bunny hadn’t liked wetting himself. On the contrary; he couldn’t wait to do it again. But standing in the middle of his bedroom and wetting himself so helplessly had sunk him down in age to the point where he felt content but so, so needy.

“You’re alright, honey Bun,” his Daddy said, first pulling off the nightshirt Bunny was so desperate to keep clean to ensure it escaped any urine and then wrapping him in a hug.

Bunny cried harder at the thought of standing naked except for a wet pull-up, feeling vulnerable and little and not at all like a big, brave boy. 

“Just a little accident,” Mycroft said, guiding Bunny to step out of the puddle of urine and then holding Bunny’s head as he laid it against his chest. 

He stood and let Bunny cry, and, as Bunny wailed, he realized his tears were eventually driven not by sadness, but by relief. He had been waiting for so long to dress like a princess and to tell his Daddy that he wanted to have accidents and be potty trained, maybe even longer than even Bunny had realized. And now his Daddy knew his secrets, and it was all going to be okay.

“Ready to get changed out of that yucky diaper?” his Daddy asked once his tears had calmed, and Bunny nodded, not big enough to argue that he was wearing a pull-up, not a diaper like Sherlock had been wearing all afternoon. 

Bunny was interested in getting a closer look at Sherlock’s diaper, wondered how long Sherlock would wear them. His Daddy had mentioned he would put Bunny down for a nap in the big bed with Sherlock; maybe Bunny would be able to crawl under the covers and see if Sherlock had wet himself, too. 

Bunny was naked a moment later, his Daddy having torn the sides of the pull-up. There were baby wipes on the top of his dresser, and he was soon wiped down and patted dry with a towel, then re-dressed in a new pull-up, this one with flowers. Bunny whined and pointed to his nightshirt, and soon he was once again dry and clean and happy. His Daddy lifted him into his arms.

“Okay, baby,” he said. “I’d say someone is more than ready for a nap.”

Bunny yawned. He let himself go limp as he was carried to the master bedroom and placed beside a sprawled-out Sherlock, who was twisted up in the sheets. Mycroft settled Sherlock back into a more comfortable position, then straightened and re-tucked the sheet around both boys. 

“Get some sleep,” Mycroft said, tucking Bunny and his new toy in and then leaning to kiss both Bunny and the plush rabbit on the forehead, which made Bunny giggle.

Bunny turned on his side to snuggle closer to Sherlock as his Daddy pulled the door halfway closed.

“Love you, Daddy,” Bunny called as he knuckled his eye.

His Daddy paused in the doorway and smiled in on him and Sherlock.

“Love you, too, ladybug.”


	25. Blanket Forts on Lazy Afternoons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a tough week and a particularly tough day. I needed the cuteness, and I hope the fluff in this chapter can bring some smiles and happiness to all of you lovelies, as well. Thank you all for your kind, kind comments--they mean so much. 
> 
> Stay strong and stay positive--tomorrow's a new day! Sending bunny kisses :)

Sherlock woke with a gasp, unsure of where he was. He felt tears coming as he lifted his thumb to his mouth, but he felt Bunny asleep in the bed next to him, pressed close, and he remembered Mycroft had put him down for a nap in the big bed. Sherlock sniffed, no longer feeling the need for tears.

Bunny’s nightshirt was decorated with a bright picture of the Little Mermaid. When Sherlock reached out and began tracing the images, Bunny squirmed a bit and then blinked awake. His gaze followed down to where Sherlock was touching his shirt, and he pushed himself to a sitting position.

“Uncle Greg bought it for me at the store,” he said, voice rough from sleep and a bit shy. 

Sherlock nodded. His thumb slipped back into his mouth as he yawned and lay his head down on the pillow. He reached up with his free hand to continue to trace the lines of the mermaid's fins.

Bunny scooted back on the mattress away from Sherlock and glanced down at him with a look Sherlock was too little to understand. Sherlock fought the urge to yank Bunny back down to lay beside him, where it was comfortable and warm, but even if he couldn’t understand what Bunny was thinking, he could tell that Bunny wanted to tell him something, and Mycroft said he needed to listen whenever someone had something important to say.

“He bought me these, too,” Bunny said, and he lifted the hem of the nightshirt towards his chest.

Bunny was wearing new pull-ups, different from the ones Sherlock wore when he was bigger. Bunny sat up on his knees to show them off: purple and pink and flowery. 

In some part of his consciousness, Sherlock could sense that his bigger self wouldn't like Bunny's nightshirt or new pull-ups, that his bigger self would tease or dismiss. And although the voice in the back of his mind--the voice he heard when he was a little bit older and didn’t need diapers or as many Mycroft cuddles--tried to make itself known, Sherlock couldn’t help but admire Bunny’s new nightshirt and the soft colors of his training pants. He was littler than usual, and, for once, he didn't think there was anythign wrong about thinking that Bunny--mussed hair in need of cutting, dressed in a princess nightgown, and wearing a pink and purple pull-up--looked beautiful.

“Pretty Bunny,” he said, grinning up at his brother.

As soon as Bunny smiled and blushed, Sherlock knew he’d said the right thing. He reached out and took Bunny’s hand, pulling him close until he was lying beside him once again. He lay his head on Bunny’s shoulder, and let his hand grab onto a fistful of Bunny’s nightshirt. 

The boys had been dozing for what Sherlock felt could have been five minutes or half an hour when they heard footsteps trudging up the wooden staircase and towards the bedroom. Sherlock could still feel the same tendrils of sadness and nervousness he’d felt since waking up that morning clouding his thoughts, but there was also a lightness to the moment. With Bunny beside him and the benefit of a good, restful nap, he began to feel as if he may be able to start pulling himself out of the darkness. 

When Uncle Greg peeked into the bedroom and called to the boys, Sherlock’s first impulse was to whisper to Bunny to hide and to pull the sheets up over their heads. Bunny seemed surprised and then giddy, and they clapped hands to their mouths to keep Uncle Greg from hearing their giggles. 

“Looks like the boys must have flown the coop,” Uncle Greg said, and Bunny snorted as he tried not to laugh. “I guess I’ll have to eat all of the graham crackers Mycroft is getting ready for snack by myself.”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide and although Bunny tried to stop him, he sat up in bed and threw the sheets away.

“Here! We’re here!” he said. “We want graham crackers, Uncle Greg!”

Uncle Greg chuckled and jumped onto the end of the bed, his hands extended towards them.

“Were you trying to trick me, little monkeys?” he asked, and then his fingers were running up and down their ribs and over their bellies, and they were both shrieking and laughing as he tickled. 

Sherlock and Bunny tried to yell that they weren’t trying to trick him, but their words were swallowed into high-pitched laughter as they rolled around in an attempt to escape his tickling fingers.

“Alright,” Uncle Greg said as he relented.

He was a bit breathless himself, but it was nothing compared to the gasping breaths Sherlock and Bunny took as they tried to recover from his attack.

“Who needs a diaper change?” he asked.

Sherlock, feeling shy about Bunny knowing that he was wet, crawled towards Uncle Greg and, on his knees, gestured for the man to lean down. He leaned close and whispered in his ear.

“Me,” he said. "I'm wet."

Uncle Greg nodded and, with a smile, told him they’d get him fixed up in no time. He lifted Sherlock up onto his hip before turning to Bunny.

“Alright, princess?” he asked, and Bunny smiled wide.

“I’m dry,” Bunny said, his cheeks pinking. Sherlock could see he was shy, too.

“Good boy,” Uncle Greg said. “Why don’t you go try to use the potty while I get Sherlock settled?” 

Bunny nodded and hurried into the bathroom while Uncle Greg lay Sherlock on the end of the bed and pulled down his pants. He reached over Sherlock’s head for the stuffed dinosaur Sherlock had gone to sleep hugging, and placed it into his arms. Sherlock was so busy asking his dinosaur what he’d missed while he napped and what they should do with the rest of the afternoon that he barely noticed Uncle Greg changing his diaper and wiping him down. It was only as Uncle Greg was taping him into a new diaper that he got impatient, and Uncle Greg had to hold him down to fasten the tapes at his hips and to keep him from wiggling away.

“Good as new, kiddo,” Uncle Greg said, patting him on the thigh before helping him into his pants. 

Sherlock raised his arms, asking to be picked up once more. He was settled in Uncle Greg's arms by the time Bunny ran from the bathroom and leaped back onto the bed. He grabbed his new plush rabbit, which he tucked beneath one arm as he bounced towards them.

“Carry me, too, Uncle Greg,” he said, and Sherlock liked the idea so much that he echoed Bunny’s request.

“Carry Bunny, too!” he said, wiggling on Uncle Greg’s hip.

“I’m not sure I’m strong enough for two little monkeys,” Uncle Greg said, a bit of amazement in his voice.

Sherlock knew that when he was this little, Mycroft could usually be swayed when he put on what their mother used to call his puppy-dog face, all big eyes and pushed out lip. Bunny seemed to catch on, and in a moment their faces were identical pictures of their cutest pleading.

Uncle Greg sighed and closed his eyes for a moment with a smile. 

“You two ruffians are gonna be the death of me,” he said, but he leaned over until Bunny was able to crawl onto his back.

They only made it to the top of the stairs before Uncle Greg refused to go any farther for safety’s sake as well as the sake of his lower back, but the boys had had their fun, and they both hurried down the stairs and skipped into the kitchen to find Mycroft and tell him Uncle Greg was the strongest man alive. 

“You’re going to regret that little stunt tomorrow,” Mycroft said when Uncle Greg entered the kitchen, but his eyes were bright, and Sherlock knew his Mycroft wasn’t angry.

“Sit down for snack,” Mycroft said, “and then maybe the strongest man in the world with a bad back will help us build a blanket fort or two. How does that sound?”

Sherlock cheered, and Bunny--who had never seen the elaborate nature of Mycroft’s blanket forts--seemed to catch Sherlock’s excitement, pausing as he reached for his sippy cup of milk to express his approval.

And after a morning of darkness and uncertainty, Sherlock spent the afternoon on his hands and knees in the multi-roomed blanket fort Mycroft had built on the backs of couches and kitchen chairs. He sat in Uncle Greg’s lap and listened to his new book being read aloud, played dinosaurs with Mycroft and then paper dolls with Bunny, and had even managed to get away from Mycroft during a diaper change, and he’d laughed and laughed, naked from the waist down, as his brother was forced to chase him through the house. It had only been moments before Mycroft had realized his best course of action was to stay still and wait for Sherlock to tire of the game, but Sherlock was pleased he’d managed to get his brother to chase him at all, and that he’d gotten him to laugh in the process. 

As dusk settled and the novelty of the games wore off, the darkness in his mind began to make itself known once more. He was cranky at the dinner table, where he cried because Bunny got the purple fork and Sherlock wanted purple too, not the orange one, and he kicked while Uncle Greg tried to clean his face of spaghetti sauce. But, through it all, he could sense the darkness had begun to recede, could feel his mind clearer of the type of overwhelming sadness than it had been that morning. There was no telling how long the dark days would last--at times, they stayed for weeks--but Sherlock may have just gotten lucky this time, and may be feeling better by morning.

By the time he was cuddled up in Mycroft’s lap as Uncle Greg and Bunny picked a movie for them to watch before bedtime, he felt a bit older, a bit more like himself. But he was comfortable and his mind was quiet, and he didn’t think there was anything wrong with pretending he was still as small and needy as he had been all day, even if it did mean wearing a diaper when the bigger boy in him said he didn’t need one. He was safe and warm in his big brother’s arms, and sometimes it felt nice just to be held. 

Both boys were yawning into their plush animals before The Little Mermaid was half-over, Sherlock in Mycroft’s lap and Bunny in Uncle Greg’s. Sherlock could see that, in the space between them on the couch, Mycroft and Uncle Greg were holding hands. 

“Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, sitting up a bit and rubbing the sleepiness from his eyes.

“Yeah, buddy?”

“Do you love Uncle Greg?”

Mycroft sat up a bit straighter and glanced across the couch towards Uncle Greg, who was absent-mindedly running his fingers along a sleepy Bunny’s spine.

“I do,” he said. “Very much.”

Sherlock nodded, taking in the information. Bunny was falling asleep, his head lolling on Uncle Greg’s shoulder, but Sherlock could see he was trying to wake himself to listen to the conversation which had just begun.

“Then he shouldn’t be our Uncle,” Sherlock said.

“‘Lock, we’ve talked about this,” Mycroft began, shifting to look him in the eye. “Some families don’t follow the rules, and that’s okay.”

“I know,” Sherlock said, nodding. He remembered the conversation he'd had with Mycroft after learning that he was Bunny's Daddy. “That’s why Bunny’s my little brother but today he was my big brother and why you’re his Daddy but just my Mycroft.” 

“That’s right,” he said, smiling, and Sherlock let the littler side of himself accept the pride in Mycroft’s voice as the bigger side forced him to squirm.

“But Uncle Greg’s not anyone's brother,” Sherlock said, eyebrows furrowed. 

He tried not to take it personally when Mycroft and Uncle Greg chuckled. Mycroft had promised him he’d never laugh at him to tease, that he’d never make fun of him while in little space.

“You’ve got a point there, kiddo,” Uncle Greg said, and Bunny bounced because Uncle Greg's body shook with his laugh.

“Okay," Mycroft said, voice light, obviously humoring Sherlock as it seemed to be entertaining both him and Uncle Greg. "Who should Uncle Greg be if not Uncle Greg?”

Sherlock knew Mycroft cared for Uncle Greg, that they loved each other the way moms and dads loved each other. Mycroft wasn’t Sherlock’s dad, but he was Bunny’s, and because Bunny was Sherlock’s brother it was almost like Mycroft was his dad, too, except his brother-dad. But Uncle Greg wasn’t a mom, and although Sherlock knew he wanted Uncle Greg to be a more special part of the family than just an Uncle, Uncle Greg couldn't be another Dad, because Mycroft was already Bunny's Daddy. He shrugged.

“I dunno,” he said, a bit discouraged. 

But it appeared Bunny did know, for he lifted his head from Uncle Greg’s shoulder and pulled out the pacifier he’d finally been allowed to have after a full day of trying to heal the sore on his tongue.

“Papa, ‘Lockie,” Bunny said, voice as young as Bunny got. “Uncle Greg is really just Papa.”

“Yeah,” Sherlock smiled, thinking of all the times Uncle Greg had put him to bed or helped him after a nightmare or played pirates with him. Mycroft wasn't his Daddy, exactly, but Uncle Greg could be his Papa! “Can Uncle Greg be Papa, Mycroft?”

For a moment, Sherlock thought Uncle Greg would say no. Mycroft was looking at him with such a tentative smile that he worried Bunny had said something wrong. But a moment later Mycroft squeezed Uncle Greg’s hand, and Uncle Greg smiled wide, and reached to pull Sherlock towards him until he was squashed next to Bunny in a hug.

“Stop it, Papa,” Sherlock said, because he could tell Uncle Greg liked the idea, that he would very much like being Papa. 

His new Papa let him go, but reached forward to ruffle his hair. Sherlock ducked his head but was unable to escape; it was only after whining that Mycroft rescued him by pulling him back into his lap. 

Sherlock settled against Mycroft and turned his attention back to the movie. But one moment he was watching the singing crab and the next moment he was upstairs, being set down in front of the bathroom sink and told to brush his teeth. He was too tired to do much more than hold his mouth open while Mycroft moved his toothbrush across his molars. 

“Whoops, this one’s sprung a leak,” Sherlock heard Uncle Greg say, and he turned, bleary-eyed, to see that Bunny was wetting what must have been an already wet pull-up, which was now leaking onto the bathroom floor. 

Bunny got a bit upset, teary because he was afraid he’d need to take off his Ariel nightshirt, but Papa just stripped him of the nightshirt and rinsed the tiny spot that had gotten wet on the hem in the sink before helping him into a new pull-up and letting him put the nightshirt back on. Sherlock could see that Mycroft was not exactly pleased, but Papa kissed him and said something about risk and reward, "reward in this case meaning a happy kid and no tantrums before bedtime." 

Mycroft told Sherlock to spit out his toothpaste, and he did, then climbed into Mycroft’s arms, refusing to do anything else besides be put to bed. He dozed through his final diaper change of the night--he’d been pretending to be smaller than he was; it only made sense that he’d use his diaper when he felt the need during the movie--and then settled into the blue and green bedroom, Bunny already asleep in the cot beside him. 

“‘Night Mycroft and Papa,” he yawned, and his Mycroft and his Papa told him goodnight before kissing his forehead, checking for monsters, and flicking off the light.


	26. Nasty Big Brothers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your lovely comments on the previous chapter and for your well-wishes! It's been a rough week and a half, but things are starting to look up, and I'm hopeful all will work out. I promise I will respond to all of your kind, sweet comments as soon as I can. For now, while I had a moment to get some writing done, I wanted to give you all a much-deserved update!
> 
> Poor Bunny has a lot to deal with in this chapter as an older Sherlock (around 7 or 8 years old, with more reservations than the younger version of himself he's been in the past few chapters) is forced to come to terms with Bunny's new ability to express himself in "girly" ways. The chapter hasn't been edited, so I apologize for any typos--I'll come back later after work and edit out any mistakes. 
> 
> Sending you all love and positivity!

When Bunny woke up because of his full bladder, it was to Sherlock sitting up in the bed next to Bunny’s cot, staring down at him from his higher position. Bunny followed Sherlock’s gaze to glance down and see that his nightshirt had ridden up to expose his flowered pull-up, and he quickly shifted and yanked the hem of his shirt down to cover himself. 

Sherlock may have accepted Bunny’s nightshirt and pink pull-ups the night before, but now there was less gentleness to his gaze, a hint of superiority tucked beneath his slightly furrowed eyebrows and some criticism hidden in the slight grin at the corner of his mouth. 

The diaper Sherlock had been changed into before being put to bed had been discarded, wet, on the bedroom floor, and Sherlock had dressed himself in his pirate shirt and a pair of jeans. His stuffed dinosaur had fallen from the bed, but Sherlock had not picked it up off the floor. His eyes were older than they had been the night before, less inviting. Sherlock was no longer his younger brother; he’d shifted up in age to being his sometimes-harsh older brother. And, if his set, judgmental stare was anything to go by, Sherlock was even older today than his baseline five-years-old, perhaps making up for how young he had slipped the previous day.

Bunny felt uncomfortably childish under Sherlock’s stare, and had the impulse to pull the pacifier from his mouth. But, needing the comfort and unsure of just how long he’d be allowed to keep his pacifier that day given the sore on his tongue, he simply hid his face behind his baby blanket and sucked harder, hugging his stuffed rabbit--which had quickly begun to hold its own against his blanket as his favorite comfort item--close to his chest.

He was relieved when he heard footsteps on the staircase and approaching the room down the hallway. He needed to pee, and he needed Papa or Daddy to help him escape Sherlock’s glare. 

“Morning, sleepyheads,” Daddy said as he entered the room.

Bunny peeked an eye out from behind his blanket as Sherlock stood from his bed and crossed his arms.

“I’m not hungry, Mycroft,” he said, voice argumentative yet still retaining a bit of the whininess that characterized Sherlock while little or big. “I don’t want breakfast, and you can’t make me have it.” 

Bunny could see that Daddy had also noticed how much bigger Sherlock was than last night. He raised an eyebrow as Sherlock spoke, then glanced over at Bunny with a smile meant to encourage despite the negativity Sherlock was already bringing to their wake-up call. 

“You’ll need to sit with us at the table, at the very least,” he said when he turned back to an impatient Sherlock.

Sherlock huffed and stomped a foot, but appeared to acquiesce to Mycroft’s terms. He left the room with a dramatic sigh and flail of his arms, as if being asked to sit with his family for breakfast was the greatest hardship he’d ever face, and Bunny could hear heavy footsteps on the staircase as he stomped downstairs.

“Sherlock’s a big boy, today, Daddy?” Bunny asked around his pacifier, sitting up as Mycroft came closer.

Daddy nodded, brushing hair back from Bunny’s forehead.

“Sometimes your brother forgets he can be very little for as long as he’d like. When that happens, he finds a new way to get attention that makes him feel more comfortable,” he said.

Bunny wasn’t sure he understood, but there was a bit of a relief in knowing that he was the younger brother once more, even if Sherlock had jumped a bit older than usual. He could let Sherlock be; he trusted his Daddy and Papa would know the best way to handle his moody older brother. 

“Let’s see that tongue of yours, baby,” Daddy said.

Bunny turned his back on his Daddy and dove back down to the bed to hide his face in his pillow. He could feel the irritation on his tongue, had felt it since he’d woken up and knew it was worse than yesterday, but he wanted his pacifier more than he wanted his tongue to stop hurting, and he knew he wouldn’t be allowed to keep it once Daddy saw the sore.

“Bunny,” Daddy warned, and he wrapped a hand around Bunny’s arm to pull him gently back into a seated position.

Bunny whined a bit, and hugged his rabbit and blanket closer to him, but he let Daddy remove the pacifier from his mouth. 

“Stick out your tongue,” he said.

Bunny, reluctantly, obeyed.

When Daddy sighed, Bunny’s fears were confirmed, and he knew it would be quite some time before he’d get his pacifier back. He pulled his tongue back into his mouth and could not help the tears from forming. It was their last day at the lake house; they’d be driving back to London that evening, and then he would need to get big again. He had already begun to feel the worry about aging up and going back to regular life peppering his thoughts; without the comfort of his pacifier, it would be that much harder to stay little and enjoy their last day. 

“Do you need to go potty, baby?" Daddy asked to distract him, and Bunny, trying to be a good boy and keep from crying over losing his pacifier, rubbed his eyes and nodded. He’d needed to go since he’d woken up, and he knew Daddy must have seen his squirming.

He tried not to worry about his pacifier as he was led to the bathroom, but when he pushed away the sadness of losing it, he was left with unresolved thoughts about the looks Sherlock had given him that morning. As much as he told himself Sherlock’s opinion on what Bunny wanted to wear and play with didn’t matter, the fact of the matter was that he wasn’t confident enough in his little personality to shake off his older brother's judgement. Sherlock was too important to him; he looked up to him too much. As he washed his hands and brushed his teeth while Daddy held his blanket and his rabbit, he found himself glancing in the mirror and then down at himself to gauge whether or not he looked as silly as Sherlock had seemed to think that morning. 

By the time Daddy was leading him out of the bathroom, he found himself hesitant to go down to the breakfast table in his Little Mermaid nightshirt. 

“Want to get dressed, Daddy,” he said, standing in the hallway while his Daddy kept walking.

Daddy paused and turned back towards him, and it was clear he was a bit surprised by the request. After all, Bunny hadn’t wanted to take off his night shirt for even a moment the day before.

“Cold,” Bunny said by way of explanation, although his tummy twisted with guilt over the lie.

His Daddy brought him into his bedroom to dress him in sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt and a jumper. Bunny turned away the first jumper he’d chosen, telling his Daddy it was too itchy but really not wanting it because it was maroon, which was a bit too close to pink. He could tell his Daddy was watching him and had questions in his mind, but Bunny was glad he didn’t say anything as he pulled out a navy blue jumper and strung it over Bunny’s arms.

“Warm enough?” Daddy asked, and Bunny nodded.

If he was really going to guard against all of Sherlock’s judgment, he knew he should switch out his stuffed rabbit for his stuffed lion and the new butterfly pull-up Daddy had dressed him in after he’d praised him for using the potty for a blue one, but he couldn’t bear to part with rabbit or his pink pull-up. They both made him feel safe and strong and himself. He’d just have to hope that taking off the most conspicuously “girly” item would keep away Sherlock’s sneering looks. 

Bunny left his pacifier and his nightshirt behind in his bedroom and let Daddy carry him away from what he couldn’t have. 

Sherlock was playing with legos in the living room when Bunny and Daddy reached the kitchen. Papa Greg was setting plates down on the table.

“Sherlock, what did I say about sitting with us at the table?” Daddy asked, and Papa raised his eyebrows as Sherlock came huffing and stomping from the living room to throw himself into a chair.

“I’m not eating,” he said, pushing the pirate plate Papa had set down at his place away from him. “And I don’t need a baby plate.”

Papa and Daddy shared a look as Daddy placed Bunny in his seat next to Sherlock and pushed his chair closer to the table. Papa had made blueberry pancakes, and he kissed Bunny on the side of the head as he put a Lion King plate of them down in front of him.

“Morning, princess,” he said.

Bunny blushed and glanced over at Sherlock, who had turned to stare. 

Bunny ducked his head and began to eat, not acknowledging Papa at all. He’d taken precautions to keep Sherlock from teasing him, and now Papa had gone and called him a baby girl name. Didn’t he see that this older Sherlock was different than yesterday’s little Sherlock? Didn’t he see that this Sherlock didn’t like it?

“I want to play,” Sherlock said as Daddy poured coffee for Papa.

“After breakfast, kid,” Papa said, and Sherlock, frustrated, pushed himself away from the table until his chair was leaning backwards, then released so that it fell back into place with a thump against the tile floor.

“Keep your chair on the ground, Sherlock,” Daddy said, voice as stern as his eyes. “You’re dangerously close to a time-out.”

Instead of screaming and shouting, which Bunny had expected, Sherlock whined and buried his head in his arms on the table, mumbling things to himself which Bunny could not make out. He remained that way for much of breakfast, never lifting his head and only responding in one-word answers to the questions Daddy and Papa put to him to attempt to include him in the conversation. 

“Papa and I were thinking we could go shopping once we’re back in London, Bunny,” Daddy said when breakfast was over and he'd begun clearing the dishes. “Get you another nightgown or two, maybe some new play clothes. And you can pick out some stickers for your chart. Would you like that?”

Bunny glanced at Sherlock once more, could see that his brother, despite having his head buried in his arms, had stilled and was listening intently to the conversation. Bunny knew that his Daddy wanted him to have the chance to dress in the colors he wanted, was trying to encourage him to embrace the part of himself that wanted any and everything “girly,” but he wasn’t sure talking about it in front of Sherlock was a very good idea. That said, the thought of glittery stickers and new clothes that didn’t have to have dinosaurs or lions or trucks or camouflage on them was exciting. Sherlock wasn’t watching, and Bunny let himself smile as he nodded.

“Can I get glitter stickers, Daddy?” he asked without thinking, not wanting to get his hopes up if there wasn’t the possibility for sparkle.

“Sure you can, ladybug,” Daddy said. 

Sherlock whined and kicked at the center base of the table.

“You can go play, now, Sherlock,” Daddy said, “Thank you for being patient.” 

Sherlock was in the living room in a second, pulling out the new toys Papa and Bunny had picked out at the store the day before, which included his new lego set.

“Want to help me with the dishes, Bun?” Papa asked, and Bunny agreed while his Daddy settled down to finish his tea and read the London Times. He’d arranged to have the paper delivered to the lake house each day they were staying.

“Tell me what you’d like to buy at the store,” Papa said in his most encouraging voice as he handed Bunny a dishtowel and plunged his hands into the soapy water in the sink.

Bunny could sense that Sherlock was all the way on the other side of the kitchen in the living room, and that he was distracted by his toys, so he was not afraid to tell Papa all about the images he had in his mind: a new princess plate and sippy cup, glittery stickers shaped like stars and rainbows and hearts, another set of paper dolls to add to the ones Papa had bought him the day before, more pink pull-ups, and a nightshirt with a unicorn, if they could find one.

“That all sounds lovely,” Papa said. “You know Daddy and I just want you to feel happy.”

Bunny nodded, and while he was coming to trust that Papa and Daddy really were okay with Bunny wanting to be a princess, he could not help but feel that Sherlock wouldn't like it, could not help but wonder what Sherlock would say. 

“Thanks for your help, princess,” Papa said when the last of the plastic dishes--the only ones Bunny was allowed to help dry--were in the dish rack. “Go play with your brother while I finish up, here, okay?”

Bunny nodded, hopped off of the stool Papa had found when they’d first arrived at the lake house, and hurried into the living room. He was ready to see what Sherlock had built with his legos, maybe even help him or ask him to build a house for his rabbit. But as he passed Sherlock--in the midst of a complicated lego structure with precisely organized colors and sizes--he noticed his brother refused to even make eye contact with him, his eyes shaded by his hair as he leaned over his structure, so Bunny resigned himself to a morning of playing by himself. 

He reached for the cardboard folder that his paper dolls had come in, feeling a bit more confident after his chat with Papa that there was nothing wrong with wanting to play with them. But when he flipped open the top flap and turned the envelope over, it was not paper dolls and paper clothes that fell out onto the living room carpet, but small pieces of cardstock, irregular and torn.

Bunny couldn’t help it; he sat back on his heels and began to cry, hitching on his breath as he wailed over the destruction of his beautiful dolls and their colorful clothes. Someone had ripped up all of his pretty paper dolls. His Daddy and Papa came immediately into the room, asking what was wrong just as Sherlock, with flushed cheeks, fled past them and ran from the room. 

Bunny, unable to speak, picked up a handful of the remains of his paper dolls and held them out to his Daddy and Papa, then collapsed onto the floor as the men came closer to him. His face pressed into the carpet where the torn paper dolls were scattered. He cried over the ruined paper dolls and because he wanted his Little Mermaid night shirt and his pacifier, but, more than anything, he cried because he knew it was Sherlock who had done this to his dolls, Sherlock who had wanted him to be sad.


	27. Forgiveness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi lovelies! You're all the best, and your comments definitely inspired me to get this chapter finished sooner than planned! I don't like leaving the boys (and all of you) without resolution! 
> 
> Warnings for a fairly intense spanking in this chapter.
> 
> These boys have certainly been through quite a few major ordeals over the course of this weekend, but I think they may have finally worked out the majority of their issues (then again, who knows what will pop up for them in the last chapter or two of this story). Poor John and Sherlock are just still so insecure in their little selves that having extended time in little!space brought a lot to the surface. Then again, it certainly made for some interesting character development as the boys dealt with each conflict in turn, and, to me, that's what writing is all about!
> 
> I expect to have one or two more chapters in this particular story. I'm sad to see this story coming to a close, but excited for ideas I have to explore new scenarios in new stories for the Little Brothers Mine series!
> 
> Hope you're all well--sending you love and bunny kisses!

He shouldn’t have done it. The paper dolls had been right next to his new Lego set, and he’d been so mad and frustrated over the morning that he’d been tearing them up almost as soon as the thought had entered his mind. But it had been wrong of him. He’d known the moment his fit of rage dwindled and he was left kneeling in the living room among remnants of ruined paper dolls that it was quite possibly the naughtiest thing he’d ever done. 

As he’d jerkily stuffed fistfulls of torn cardstock back into the envelope in which the dolls were stored, he crossed his fingers and prayed that Bunny wouldn’t want to play with his paper dolls that day. He tried to convince himself that it served Bunny right, that now Mycroft and Papa would really have a reason to give Bunny so much coddling attention and to buy him new toys at the store. But a sinking emptiness driven by more than his refusal to eat breakfast made his stomach ache, and he hadn’t been able to look Bunny in the eye when the kid had come into the living room to play. 

He’d been a terrible big brother. He was going to get caught; and, when he did, Mycroft was going to kill him.

It had been all he could do not to run out of the room the moment Bunny entered it. He’d managed to sit, still and afraid, until the tears had begun and Mycroft and Papa Greg had been rushing to see what had happened. Bunny sounded as upset as the time he’d wet his pants at the zoo, maybe even sadder, and suddenly Sherlock couldn’t handle the thought that he’d brought Bunny so much pain. Bunny had been hurt more by his dolls being torn up than perhaps he ever had been in littlespace, and it was all Sherlock’s fault. He had been selfish and rude, and Mycroft was going to be so disappointed in him.

Sherlock’s first impulse upon rushing from the living room was to leave the lake house entirely. But he knew he was already in deep trouble, and worrying Mycroft and Papa Greg would do nothing to help his case. And so it was he found himself huddled in the deepest depths of the closet in Bunny’s bedroom upstairs, pressed as close against the wall as he could be. He figured they would look in his bedroom first, so choosing Bunny’s room as a hideout would hopefully buy him a few more minutes without punishment. 

Sherlock sighed and hugged his knees to his chest. He hadn’t even wanted to be the older brother, today, and now he’d gone and done something only the meanest big brothers would even consider. 

The day before had been such a wonderful mix of cuddles and pacifiers and diapers and back rubs that Sherlock had been upset to see it end. It had been quite some time since Sherlock had sunk that low, and he had gone to bed content, with fewer worries than he’d had in months, contemplating the idea that, although he had started the transition to an older boy, he may just let himself off the hook by allowing himself to go back down to being extra little for one more day. 

But doubt had crept into his mind as he’d blinked awake the next morning, doubt that he was acting like too much of a baby, that Mycroft and Greg didn’t want to deal with his childishness in that way, that he had to be the older brother for Bunny. They also only had one more day at the lake house, and what if it was too hard for Sherlock to age back up and function as an adult after spending so long in headspace? They all needed to begin shifting back to their baselines.

And then he’d realized he’d wet the diaper he was wearing at some point while he slept, and he felt a stab of disgust that led him to strip the offending item from his hips and finalize his decision to be bigger. He could feel the usual brattiness settling in, the old familiar tactics he could use even if he wasn’t able to ask for affection in the same way he could when wearing diapers. He would get attention by acting impudent and unruly, and all would be fine.

But there was John asleep next to him, Little Mermaid nightshirt ridden up to his chest and legs splayed as if he were proudly displaying his new pink pull-up, Peter Rabbit pacifier matching the plush rabbit draped beside his head on the pillow and the bunny baby blanket tangled over one thigh. It was as if he were boasting about his own ability to act the way he truly wanted. 

Sherlock had known for quite some time that there were some days when Bunny just wanted to be a little girl. Now, Bunny had finally been honest and brave, and Mycroft and Uncle Greg had listened. They were going to make him their princess. 

Sherlock needed to swallow his pride and, like Bunny, tell Mycroft what he needed. He needed to let Mycroft take care of the littlest side of him instead of forcing that side away before it was ready to be gone. But It was too hard to think about saying the words, especially now that it wasn’t just him and Mycroft. Papa Greg and Bunny were part of the game now, and if it was hard to tell Mycroft--who, Sherlock knew, probably already knew on some level and was just waiting for Sherlock to admit it--that he didn’t always want to be a big boy, it was that much harder to tell John and Greg, particularly so close to the time he’d need to interact with them as an adult once more. 

And so, because it was harder to admit what was really going on than it was to think that Bunny was taunting Sherlock for his inability to ask for what he needed, Sherlock turned his anger and frustration not at himself, but at Bunny. Judging and snubbing and trying to make Bunny’s life more difficult had the dual benefits of lessening Bunny’s comfort--and thus decreasing the hostility Sherlock felt towards himself and his own inability to find comfort--while providing Sherlock with additional ways to misbehave--and thus gaining more opportunities for Mycroft and Papa Greg’s attention.

But, hunched in the closet and breathlessly waiting to be punished, Sherlock could see that he’d made a whole string of bad decisions. He shouldn’t have taken his own frustrations out on Bunny, who was just trying to find happiness, and he should have talked to Mycroft when he had the chance instead of pretending he didn’t want breakfast just to be difficult. He was disappointed in himself, and he felt the pull to be little stronger than ever. 

It was quite some time before anyone came to look for him. He wasn’t particularly surprised; he knew Bunny would take some time to calm down and it was likely Mycroft and Papa Greg were discussing the best way to handle Sherlock’s transgressions. But Sherlock had needed to pee since waking up that morning, had been holding it because, in the back of his mind, he knew he wanted to wet himself for attention sometime after breakfast. Now he wasn’t sure how much longer he could go without peeing in his jeans. It didn’t feel right to leave the closet and use the loo, not when he was in so much trouble, so he reached a hand between his legs and squeezed, hoping someone would come for him soon. 

He underestimated the way his heart would begin racing as soon as he finally heard footsteps climbing the staircase, and at the thought that he was about to get caught once and for all, he felt his hand growing warm and wet in his crotch. He was peeing in his pants.

Sherlock, after a few futile attempts to stop the flow, resolved himself to the fact that he was wetting himself, and simply waited for the worst of it to be over, adding it to the long list of actions he would be punished for that morning. He was a saturated mess of tears and urine by the time Mycroft opened the closet door to stare down at him, angry and so, so disappointed.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock wailed, unable to keep his composure under his brother’s disapproving gaze. “I’m so, so sorry!”

Mycroft did not speak. He took a step back and pointed to the floor to signal that he was waiting for Sherlock to remove himself from the closet. Sherlock scrambled to his feet and clambered, dripping, out of the small space and into the bedroom, where he found Mycroft seated in the desk chair. He was over his big brother’s knee after little more than a jerk of Mycroft’s arm.

“Please,” Sherlock begged.

Mycroft said nothing as he began to spank Sherlock, thwacking his hand heavily against the soaking wet fabric of Sherlock’s rear. There was real emotion behind Mycroft’s actions; Sherlock could tell that his brother had been truly angered by his behavior. The boy could not help but cry, and in the overstimulation of fear and pain and neediness and gratefulness, he felt another burst of urine wet his pants, his bladder fully emptying over Mycroft’s knees. 

The entire spanking was humiliating, and painful, and a reminder of his bad choices and his naughtiness. And it was exactly what Sherlock needed. The entire time he had been waiting in the closet, he had been desperate to be put in his place and desperate to atone for his mistakes.

He let his thoughts go fuzzy as he forced himself to focus solely on the pain, on the humiliation, and on the release of tension. But when Mycroft’s hits began to decrease in power, Sherlock whined in the back of his throat and shook his head, which was pressed into the crook of his brother’s elbow.

“Don’t stop,” he breathed, then closed his eyes against more tears as Mycroft picked up the pace and intensity once more. 

It was Mycroft who called an end to the punishment, refusing to go on despite Sherlock’s desperate pleading. They had already gone on far longer than they ever had before, and Sherlock was a snivelling mess, bonelessly flopped over Mycroft’s knees until he felt his older brother’s arms hoisting him up onto his lap, where he held him close as Sherlock cried.

“I’ve got you,” Mycroft said, voice soft if still a bit distant. 

“I’m sorry!” Sherlock wailed once more, desperate to make things right with Mycroft so he could begin to make things right with Greg and especially with John. 

Mycroft did not respond, which wasn’t surprising. Sherlock knew it was not going to be that easy to earn back Mycroft’s trust and forgiveness. He cried against his brother’s shoulder, telling him over and over again that he was sorry. 

By the time Mycroft had lifted Sherlock off of his lap and carried him into the bathroom to begin running a bath and stripping Sherlock of his wet things, Sherlock was all out of tears. His head hurt, and his eyes stung, and he felt, more than anything, empty. It was all too easy to sit back and let Mycroft bathe him, and he was too emotionally spent to care just how much he was being babied, even when Mycroft lay him down on the end of the bed in the master bedroom and taped him into a diaper. 

“You owe Bunny an explanation and an apology,” Mycroft said, helping Sherlock dress in comfortable clothing. Mycroft was still distant, cold, and Sherlock simply nodded, sheepish. 

He was carried downstairs to the living room, where Bunny sat sniffling on Uncle Greg’s lap, pacifier in his mouth. Sherlock felt a stab of guilt; Bunny must have been so upset that he was allowed his pacifier even though he had a sore tongue. He felt shy and sad when Mycroft set him down, and tried to hide behind his brother.

Mycroft tsked him, and guided him to stand in front of Bunny, who glanced up at him with nothing but hurt in his eyes. Even Papa Greg looked upset. It made Sherlock feel like crying again. Usually, Mycroft or Greg helped Sherlock process his thoughts, helped him plan what he needed to say in an apology. But he could see that Mycroft needed Sherlock to do this one on his own, that it was only by honestly processing his feelings that he would be forgiven.

“I was so naughty, Bunny,” Sherlock said. “I was mean and I shouldn’t have torn up your dollies, and I’m so, so sorry.” 

Bunny glanced up at him for a moment, but then his face fell, and he was crying again, Sherlock’s reminder of his torn paper dolls apparently too much to take. But Papa Greg was nodding for Sherlock to go on as he rubbed Bunny’s back, and when Sherlock glanced back over his shoulder at Mycroft, he simply raised one eyebrow, as if he were expecting more.

“I wanted to make you feel bad,” Sherlock admitted at last, fiddling with the hem of his shirt and wishing he were wearing his coat, which always made him feel safe and strong. “I was sad because you were so happy, and Papa and Mycroft were going to make you a princess.”

Bunny nodded and looked down at his lap, sniffling.

“You don’t want me to be a princess,” he mumbled, wiping away tears as he continued to cry. He hugged his new plush rabbit, tucked beneath his chin.

Sherlock shook his head.

“You can be a princess,” he said, careful not to show any hesitation in his voice. Bunny glanced up, eyes wide and hopeful. “But I..” Sherlock looked back towards Mycroft. It was hard to explain; the words were hard to find, especially when he was so close to slipping littler. 

“I felt mad,” Sherlock said, starting over. “I felt mad because you got to be a princess and I...I wanted to be littler, again.”

Sherlock’s cheeks pinked as he admitted it out loud, but it was clear from Bunny’s puzzled expression that he would need to say more. But Sherlock didn’t know how to make Bunny understand, and he didn’t know if he could go on after admitting that he wanted to be littler. It was all so hard, and there were too many emotions and everyone was looking at him. He whined a bit, and looked up at Mycroft.

“I don’t know how to say it,” he said, and Mycroft stepped towards him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re doing just fine,” Mycroft said. “You were upset that Bunny could be himself when you felt as if you could not. Is that right?”

Sherlock nodded quickly, grateful that Mycroft had put his difficult thoughts into words.

“If I couldn’t be little, then I didn’t want Bunny to be a princess,” he said, and Mycroft nodded.

“Tell your brother,” Mycroft said, and Sherlock turned back towards Bunny and Papa Greg. Bunny had stopped crying, and was blinking up at Sherlock, trying to understand. 

“I wanted to be littler, but my mind said I shouldn’t be a baby,” Sherlock said, shy once more as he leaned against Mycroft for support and comfort but able to find his words a bit more easily now that the man was beside him, closer to forgiving him. “My mind said it wasn’t fair you got to wear your mermaid shirt and pink pull-ups and Papa and Mycroft were gonna buy you what you wanted at the store but they weren’t gonna buy me what I wanted because I couldn’t even tell them what I wanted. Then I felt like making you sad because I was sad, and I was angry and that’s why I teared apart your dollies. But it was wrong and I’m so, so sorry, Bunny.”

Sherlock was tearful as he finished the apology, rubbing at his eyes as he waited for Bunny to say something. Bunny stared at him, then took his pacifier out of his mouth and held it out towards Sherlock. 

Mycroft tapped him on the bum to signal that he should go take what Bunny was offering, and Sherlock smiled slightly as he accepted the pacifier into his mouth.

“You can be little if you want to be,” Bunny said. He turned over his shoulder towards Greg. “Right, Papa?” he asked, and Greg nodded.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” Papa said, ruffling his hair. “Now go and give your brother a kiss and see if you can’t get rid of that sad face.”

Bunny stood from the couch and stepped forward to kiss Sherlock on the cheek.

“I’m sorry, Bunny,” Sherlock said.

“It's okay. Papa said we can buy lots and lots of new paper dolls,” Bunny said with a smile that wavered for a moment--more than likely when Bunny remembered why the new dolls were necessary--before settling once more. “You can help me pick them out. Maybe they’ll be even prettier than last time.” 

Sherlock smiled, and this time it was Sherlock who kissed Bunny on the cheek before the smaller man climbed back up onto the couch to snuggle with Papa Greg and his stuffed rabbit. 

“I’m sorry, Papa,” Sherlock said, and Papa Greg nodded knowingly, then winked to show him all was forgiven.

Sherlock turned around to face his big brother.

“Time out, now, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, knowing one was long overdue, that Mycroft had not finished punishing.

Mycroft nodded. 

“I think so,” he said. “And, Sherlock, you’ll be doing chores to pay for what you ruined. It’s never okay to destroy others’ things. Understand?”

Sherlock nodded, and when Mycroft opened his arms to give him a hug, all finally felt right. 

“Daddy?” Bunny called when Sherlock had been led halfway to the time-out corner.

“Yes, baby?” Mycroft asked.

“Don’t make it a long time-out, okay?” he asked. “Lockie’s just a baby, right now.”

Sherlock could feel his cheeks pinking. But he smiled at Bunny around the pacifier as Mycroft chuckled, in awe of his little brother's capacity for kindness and sensitivity. 

“Yeah, Mycroft,” Sherlock said with a grin, feeling a bit more like himself. “I’m just a baby.”

It wasn’t a complete lie; after all, Sherlock could feel the littler side of himself still waiting to take over, and he figured that with the right encouragement from Bunny and the right amount of cuddles from Mycroft and Papa, it may just be convinced to come out and play. 

“Whatever you say, little one,” Mycroft said as he guided Sherlock into the corner by a hand on the back of his neck. 

Mycroft leaned down to kiss Sherlock on the top of the head, and Sherlock could not help but sigh in contentment as he settled in for time-out. Bunny had forgiven him, and Papa had forgiven him, and he was well on his way to being forgiven by Mycroft. He was clean from his bath, and feeling little from his spanking and his diaper, and Mycroft hadn't made him take Bunny's pacifier out of his mouth. He had brothers and Papas and Mycrofts who loved him. And he never, ever wanted to feel separated from them again.


	28. Sandcastles and Farewells

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's been such a long time since I last posted! I've been dragging my feet about writing this chapter, really wanting to finish up the story in a way that you would all enjoy. I'm still not entirely happy with it, but you've all been waiting long enough. This is the last chapter of "Weekend at the Lake," but I hope you'll all follow the Little Brothers Mine series and read the next stories, too. I have a lot of ideas for follow-up stories that I'm excited to get started on!
> 
> I wanted to take a moment to thank you all for reading, commenting, and sending support and encouragement. This story has been such a joy to write, and has really provided comfort for me (as I hope it has for you as well). Your feedback has been wonderfully validating, and for that I am truly grateful. 
> 
> No warnings for this chapter--just fluff and probably some too-sappy cuteness! Enjoy! 
> 
> Sending you all bunny kisses, as always!

After a long time-out, Sherlock had been released to play with an anxiously waiting Bunny, and the boys set about trying to determine a name for the new stuffed rabbit that had become such a constant presence in their lives over the past day. It was while they were very seriously weighing the pros and cons of including a middle name in their deliberations, Sherlock keeping notes with a broken crayon on the inside back cover of a coloring book, that Greg entered the living room with the boys’ swim trunks in hand.

“Who’s ready to go swimming?” he asked. 

Sherlock paused in mid-sentence and the boys turned over their shoulders to look up at him. When they registered that he had their swim suits, they abandoned their task and rushed across the living room to crowd around him.

“We get to swim?” Sherlock asked, Bunny close behind. 

Greg smiled down at the boys, nodding. He and Mycroft had been planning to let the boys swim as early as the first day they’d arrived at the beach house. Chances to swim, canoe, and kayak were few and far between in the hustle of city-life, and they had chosen this particular lake house specifically for the convenience of its private lake access. But bad weather, moody children, and unexpected situations requiring full attention had kept them from actually acting on their plans until now. Mycroft hadn’t seemed particularly concerned, but Greg was determined to get the boys in the water before they left the lake house that evening. With any luck, they could tire the boys out and get them to sleep on the ride back to London.

“Let’s get you both changed,” he said, dropping the suits and beach towels onto the couch as Sherlock began pulling clothes from his body frantically.

Greg chuckled and helped the boy get his shirt over his head, then gestured for Bunny--still shy and quiet from the events of the morning yet adorably attached to Sherlock--to come closer so he could begin to undress the younger boy. Sherlock began prattling on about the myriad swim strokes he knew, already beginning to demonstrate how he would teach Bunny as he rushed around the room. 

Greg had assumed Sherlock would immediately slip down into his youngest headspace after his time-out and the tears of the morning, but it seemed the boy was currently at his usual age of five or six--younger than he had started the morning but still not as young as he had been the day previous. Greg would need to check with Mycroft regarding what was best to do in the current situation, whether they should encourage the boy to slip younger--as he had expressed wanting earlier that day--or whether they should simply let him be. 

Sherlock tore off the diaper he had been wearing--still dry, which Greg found interesting. Maybe the boy was not feeling as young as he and Mycroft had assumed. On the other hand, as soon as Greg pulled Bunny’s sweatpants down, he could clearly see the boy had wet his pull-up. Bunny blushed and held his hands over his crotch as if trying to hide the sagging pull-up. Greg saw his eyes glance to make sure Sherlock wasn’t peeking. Luckily, the boy was busy pulling on his own swim suit.

“It’s okay, princess,” Greg said, wanting to reassure the boy. “Just an accident. That’s what your pull-ups are for” 

He was not surprised that Bunny had wet himself over the course of the morning. The boy hadn’t wanted to be out of Sherlock’s sight for a moment, sticking so close that Sherlock had begun to shrug him away when he tried to sit immediately next to him, shoulder to shoulder. 

It was clear Bunny was scared Sherlock would leave him, that Sherlock tearing up his paper dolls had frightened Bunny into thinking Sherlock didn’t like him and did not want to spend time with him. The boy may currently be overcompensating for the distance he had felt earlier that day by gluing himself to his brother now that they had reconciled, but Greg could not help but wonder whether Sherlock’s actions would be viewed in a different light by John once he had aged up. It was not out of the realm of possibility that the boys would have some troubles in their relationship given all that had come to light over the course of the weekend. He anticipated they would both feel varying levels of confusion, anger, and vulnerability when they were forced to deal with the events fully out of headspace; Greg just hoped they would both be honest. 

As Greg helped Bunny out of his wet pull-up and began cleaning him up with the baby wipes he had brought with him for exactly that reason, Sherlock finished dressing and took off running for the sliding glass door in the kitchen which led out to the back porch and, down the yard, to the lakefront.

“Not yet, Sherlock,” Mycroft said entering the kitchen, pausing Sherlock, who pouted and stomped a foot but stayed put inside. “You both need sunscreen.”

Mycroft sat at the kitchen table with the bottle of sunscreen in hand and waited for Sherlock to come near. The day had warmed significantly from that morning, which had earlier all the signs of a cool, cloudy day. Now, there was sun shining through the windows, and although it was not exceedingly strong, Mycroft was cautious, had warned Greg that Sherlock sunburned easily when Greg suggested the boys spend the day in the lake. Sherlock sighed dramatically.

“I don’t need it, My,” he said, still clinging to the door handle. “I’ll be in the water the whole time. The sun won’t get me.”

Mycroft waited. Sherlock, testing the boundaries, opened the sliding glass door a fraction of an inch, then glanced back towards Mycroft, who said nothing but raised an eyebrow. Sherlock let his arms fall away from the door handle and down to his sides as he whined in the back of his throat and dragged his feet towards Mycroft, ever reluctant.

“I don’t like you,” he mumbled, and Mycroft gave him a quick slap on his rear which had Sherlock yelping and bringing his hands around behind him as he apologized.

Bunny started when Sherlock was spanked, and Greg shushed him, helping him step into his swim trunks and tying the drawstring around his waist.

“He’s okay,” Greg said.

“Papa?” Bunny asked, holding onto Greg’s hand and absently tracing lines in his palm, eyes downcast.

“Yes, baby?” Greg asked. He had to admit he found it adorable when the boy was on the younger side of his headspace, even sweeter and more compliant than usual. 

“Are there monsters in the lake?” he whispered, glancing up with genuine curiosity and a bit of fear.

Greg shifted the boy until he was sitting on his knee. 

“There are fish and frogs and maybe a few lake eels,” Greg said. “But I promise, no monsters.”

Bunny nodded and let his head rest against Greg’s shoulder. 

He could not help but feel a desperate protectiveness over the kids, and as he lifted Bunny in his arms and carried him to the kitchen to wait his turn to be sunscreened, he hoped that, even though they were all heading back to London and the regular routine of jobs and separate apartments, there would not be a long stretch of time before he had the chance to care for his boys again. He saw how much it meant to them, and he never felt quite so content or quite so connected to Mycroft as he did when they were Papa and Daddy.

By the time the boys had been slathered in far more sunscreen than was necessary, Sherlock was on the verge of a tantrum and Bunny on the verge of tears from the worry that Sherlock would misbehave and be sent to timeout. But as soon as Greg and Mycroft released them to the backyard, both boys racing each other to the waterfront, the mood was lifted. Sherlock seemed to forget that he had been very close to losing his opportunity to swim, and Bunny found instant contentment when Sherlock took his hand as they raced down the hill towards the water.

“I assumed Sherlock would sink lower, after what he said this morning,” Greg said, making his way towards the water with Mycroft, carrying beach chairs for themselves and sand toys for the boys.

Mycroft hummed.

“As is generally the case with my brother,” he said, “It appears the appeal of slipping lower has been eradicated now that it would not necessarily suit his present needs.”

“You don’t think he’s still struggling?” Greg asked, trying to understand Mycroft's comment. “Forcing himself to stay older?”

Mycroft shook his head as they set up their chairs right where the grass of the yard met the sand of the shore. The owners of the house had created a faux beach, laying sand over the dirt of the shoreline. The boys had raced through the sand, and Sherlock was now up to his waist in the water, trying to coax a tentative John to come in past his ankles. 

“I don’t,” Mycroft said, taking a seat next to Greg. “He may have been contemplating which age to be this morning, but as soon as the prospect of swimming came into play, there’s no question that Sherlock would choose an age that gave him a bit of independence. If he were younger, he’d need supervision and coddling that would take away from his desire to swim and play.”

Greg nodded, smiling as John gave in to Sherlock’s pleading and dove forward into the water with a laugh.

“I’ve been wondering what impact the weekend will have on their relationship,” he said, and Mycroft nodded, reaching for Greg’s hand in a rare initiation of contact.

“I gather there will be some conversations in need of having once we return to London. I just hope both of them are ready to have them.”

He glanced over at Greg, who was nodding, and squeezed his hand. Mycroft’s attention turned back towards the lake.

“Not too far, Sherlock,” he called out. “Stay where your brother can still touch the bottom.”

It was amazing how much Greg had learned about Mycroft from seeing him care for his brother and John Watson. There was a softness to him not apparent to those he interacted with on a daily basis, an understanding of the world of his brother that spoke to nothing but unconditional, ever-growing love. If it hadn’t been for Mycroft’s astute observations, his clear understanding of the thoughts and desires of the boys--with the rare exception of his shortcomings regarding John’s princess desires--the entire weekend would have more than likely disintegrated into chaos and an emotional turmoil they may not have been able to overcome.

“You’re a good man, Mycroft Holmes,” Greg said, a sentiment he had expressed before but one he knew Mycroft was often hesitant to accept or believe.

Mycroft turned towards him.

“If I am, it’s thanks to the three of you,” he said, nodding with his chin towards the boys as he once more squeezed Greg’s hand. 

The boys splashed and swam and laughed for nearly an hour and a half before Greg and Mycroft called them in for lunch. They had packed sandwiches in a cooler, and the boys sat on their beach towels, dripping lakewater as they scarfed down peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and grapes and drank from juice boxes. Sherlock began explaining the game they'd been playing.

“And Bunny was a mermaid who helped the pirates find the treasure,” he said as he chewed, prompting Mycroft to remind him not to talk with his mouth full.

“It’s good that I let Bunny be a mermaid, right, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked. “I didn’t make him be a pirate when he didn’t want to.”

Greg chuckled at the boy’s earnestness, but had been thinking just a moment before that the boy really had made strides in playing well with others and allowing others to be themselves over the course of the weekend. Sherlock’s growing desire to be a good big brother was endearing.

“Very good, buddy,” Mycroft said, and Sherlock smiled.

It was an afternoon of sandcastles and underwater handstand contests and games of tic-tac-toe drawn with sticks before the tired, sandy boys were ushered inside for a quick hose-off in the shower, a change into some dry clothes, and a late nap. They took a while to get down to sleep after the excitement of the morning, but Greg did all his best voices during storytime, and soon they were asleep in the master bedroom, each clutching a stuffed animal. It appeared Mycroft’s assumptions about Sherlock’s rationale for staying older were unsurprisingly correct, for as soon as the fun of swimming had passed, he was quieter and needier, accepting his pacifier and a pull-up before naptime. 

Mycroft and Greg took their respite from the boys as a chance to clean the lake house and pack the bags. They moved throughout the house setting things right, checking beneath couch cushions and under beds to ensure no beloved toys were left behind. Mycroft began packing the car while Greg went to wake the boys and send them to use the loo before the long car ride. 

There was some sadness and whininess on the part of both boys. Neither one of them was particularly happy to have been woken from his nap and both were rather distressed when they learned they were leaving the lake house where they had spent the weekend. Greg found himself helping two tearful boys into clean pull-ups for the car ride. Luckily, they were boy sleepy and young enough that they were compliant, so he simply gave them both their plush animals, pushed their pacifiers into their mouths, and led each boy by a hand to the car, where he kissed them on the forehead as he buckled them into the back seat.

“Say goodbye to the lake house until next time, babies,” Mycroft prompted from the driver’s seat, having promised to do the first shift of driving until they stopped for dinner.

“I’m not a baby!” Sherlock argued around his pacifier, but Bunny turned in his seat and waved to the lake house through the window before pausing, seeming to realize just what Mycroft had said.

“Daddy, we can come back?” Bunny asked, sniffling.

Mycroft nodded and Greg turned to reach a hand to pat Sherlock, who had finally stopped crying long enough to catch on to the fact that they might be able to return someday, on the knee.

“Of course, lady bug,” he said. “We’ll plan for another weekend just as soon as we can, okay?”

“Bye, lake house,” Bunny said, clearly consoled by the prospect of coming back, and Sherlock, who was now sucking his thumb as his pacifier had fallen out of his mouth as he cried, turned to wave as well, his tears decreasing. 

Greg reached into the backseat to rescue Sherlock’s pacifier from the floor of the car. He glanced around for a napkin or wipe to clean it off, but, finding no other cleaning method, stuck the pacifier into his own mouth before drying it on his shirt and holding it back out to the boy. Sherlock reached forward and took it into his mouth like a baby bird.

“We’ve got to get that kid a pacifier clip, or at least a second pacifier,” Greg mused, and Mycroft, focused on the road and the navigation system’s directions, hummed his consent.

“Add it to the list,” he said light-heartedly, just as Sherlock--apparently listening to the conversation--piped in that he would only use it if it had dinosaurs. 

“I’ll see what I can do, little pirate,” he said, smirking at Sherlock.

“Papa, do you know what we named rabbit?” Bunny asked.

Greg turned to glance at Bunny in the seat behind him. The boy was holding his bunny close to his chest, his baby blanket draped over his knees.

“What, honey?” he asked.

It was Sherlock who answered: “Willa!” he called, and Bunny, smiling proudly, nodded.

“We named her after me, like my middle name, William,” Sherlock said.

“But she’s a girl not a boy,” Bunny said, very serious, clarifying. “So she’s Willa.”

Greg smiled back at his boys, cherishing the last few hours he had with them before they’d be returning to their more guarded selves. 

“It’s beautiful,” he said, and he, winking at the boys, taking Mycroft’s hand, was speaking about more than just the rabbit.


End file.
